Star Lord, Volume 1
by christopher.action.comix
Summary: In Star Lord, Volume 1: Peter Quill/Star Lord is in the process of a profound personal transformation, and Gamora is a major player in Peter's metamophosis. This story will delve into Peter's psyche and the relationship that is developing between Peter and Gamora. This is rated M primarily for language and the ongoing complexity in Peter and Gamora's relationship.
1. Chapter One: Combustion

_My love is alive  
_ _Way down in my heart  
_ _Although we are miles apart_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Ain't No Mountain High Enough_

* * *

Chapter One: Combustion

"Take my hand."

The words fragment as the sound waves delay and deconstruct. Like there's an invisible barrier between mom's pale fingertips and the empty space where Grandpa gently prods me forward. Trepidation binds me, I stall at the edge of her hospital bed.

Somewhere deep inside, I know what's happening. All of my senses are beginning to fail in rapid succession, starting with the loss of peripheral vision; like paper exposed to flame, first curling unnaturally before transforming from warm mahogany to crisp obsidian. A searing chemical burn whips through my nervous system. My brain refuses to process the impending inevitability. _Mom is leaving me._

 _Shutting down now, Pete. We're shutting down._

Is that my voice? Or grandpa's? Because mom's words are like gossamer, easily drowned out by the blood beating violently against the arterial walls that line my temple.

"Peter, take my hand."

I'm paralyzed. Combine that intolerable sensation with fading vision and the distinct loss of hearing, i.e., the terrifying product that derives from 1.) the deafening klaxon a medical device howls when a body flatlines and 2.) the insidious white noise that overwhelms just seconds before they lose consciousness. Overload. Any second now, and I am going to combust…..

I have failed.

I have failed mom's final request.

 _Peter, take my hand._

And now I am beyond ill. Mom was my champion, and I her little Star Lord. But now she's gone, leaving me utterly alone…. alone and pathetic, and so very vulnerable. How can I possibly survive the most devastating wound a child might sustain? I bawl and writhe, sobbing at the top of my lungs, yet no sound escapes.

* * *

Twenty-six years later….. and I am still ill. But I can't tell anyone.

No. I should clarify. I refuse to tell anyone, because most of the time I can't even think about it myself.

At any moment of the day or night, I can feel the wound as acutely as if the injury was inflicted yesterday. Never dormant, the trauma lies hidden beneath layers of scar tissue. But beyond the tough fibrous stratum, at any moment, the nauseating infection threatens to fester and spread.

Mentor, Yondu Udonta, believes the prescription is simple: build up a metric ton of physical and mental barriers, i.e., never allow anyone in.

And after years of gallivanting with Yondu's band of _Ravagers_ , I've been exposed to a myriad of life forms' misery: similar ills and equally painful trauma. But should I flinch, or show any body language akin to "empathy," Yondu immediately intervenes, "Boy, that's the way of the universe, so quit with the debilitatin' Terran ways. Simpathsizin'! Heh! That kind of thinking will ruin you, boy!"

If Yondu's words don't set me straight, the sharp sting of his hand connecting with the side of my face certainly command my attention, "You're getting soft, boy! Cut that shit out."

So that's how I've been taught to cope and persevere. Yondu's education is clear: empathy is how "weak" life forms interact. And Yondu has prevailed by joining the opposite side of the spectrum, for Yondu is anything but weak. He's a survivor, and a fierce leader.

And me? What about Peter Jason Quill?

Yondu believes that my past behaviors can be rationalized by the fact that at age eleven, I was not much more than a damned Terran baby. But deep down inside, I feel like it is too late for me. I'm caught between two worlds, two philosophies, and it might be too late to rewrite set patterns. Mom planted the seed. And you can call it unconditional love, but whatever the case, by the time I was eleven, I'd grown accustom, (or "been conditioned," Yondu would growl in disgust), to the notion that relationships are built on trust, love, and vulnerability. And that it's okay, and actually necessary, to let someone inside.

Yondu couldn't disagree more. "Idiot boy! Mark my words. You ever want to amount to anything, boy? That Terran thinking is gonna be your downfall."

* * *

Following the events of this past year, I find myself in completely different circumstances. No longer a _Ravager_ , nor mentored by Yondu, I've taken a sizable step towards independence. How? Despite great temptation, I opted to break from Yondu's principles, and take an honorable and responsible course of action. By doing so, the highly ethical Xandarians have offered me a second chance, and somehow believe I'm fit to keep an eye on four very unique, not to mention, potentially dangerous individuals. With me in tow, the five of us have been coined as _The Guardians of the Galaxy_. I know, no pressure, right?

So as we embark on our first of many adventures, crewmate and fellow Guardian, Gamora responds favorably to my first initiative with, "We'll follow your lead, Star Lord."

Well, it is my ship. But am I the lead? Are the Xandarians correct to presume that I can oversee this eclectic band of eccentrics?

 _We'll follow your lead, Star Lord._

Gamora's supportive response quashes any residual insecurity. Her left hand briefly comes to rest on my right shoulder, fingertips squeezing for added affirmation; the corners of my mouth twitch upwards; producing the first genuine smile I've worn in years.

 _She's the one._

Of all my Guardian cohorts, Gamora has been the driving force of nearly everything that's transpired thus far. So what the hell am I going to do? Somehow I've inherited a point of leadership. But can I trust my experience? I feel an undeniable connection to all of my new companions. But I can't shake the feeling that Yondu is right. Leadership and vulnerability are not meant to go hand in hand.

 _Celestials above_ , will I rise to this new challenge? Or combust due to the instability of my wound?

* * *

Up next: Chapter Two: Unrequited


	2. Chapter Two: Unrequited

_You're the love that I've looked for,  
Come with me, and escape_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Escape (The Pina Colada Song)_

* * *

Chapter Two: Unrequited

 _Kyrnstok Station VII – mid-sized spaceport, fueling station and black market trading post_

It's not easy sharing. _The Milano_ is my ship. Sure she's entertained a handful of female companions, but…. an occasional hook-up is a temporary affair, and a helluva lot different then four full-time shipmates breathing recycled air. Sure, one out of the four is small enough to fit in a 4-inch diameter plant pot, (and maybe Groot produces oxygen), but nonetheless, the new living arrangements are really starting to test my patience. Dammit, it's only been forty-eight hours? I guess that's enough time for us to make our first official pit stop. Great balls of fire, I'm beginning to comprehend the ramifications of this Guardian business.

After helping Gamora and Drax suit up to garner supplies and necessities for our next mission, after walking a few paces inside the main compartment, my foot connects painfully with a metal canister.

" _Celestials!_ Why the hell is there an oversized bucket in the middle of the….wait. Uh, why are there so many…." I now count over a dozen piles of metallic components, many of which appear to be soaking in containers of lubricant.

"Rocket? Dammit Rocket! This has got to be a fire hazard. I nearly kicked over this…"

I stop mid-sentence because one of my pet peeves includes talking to the backside of any living being, especially when they don't make the effort to respond to their name. _Universe!_ Yondu would have only needed to purse his lips and he'd command the attention of anyone in proximity. I know I don't need to lead like Yondu. That's just one style, and I'm a different being with a different perspective and personality.

"Rocket! Rocket, I need to speak with you."

"I'm listening Quill, but I got at least three hands busy trying to loosen the fifth forward shaft from the main connection rod. And if I lose focus now, humie, I'm might not remember the order of how these important thingies go on and off. Capishe?"

"Wait," I'm not completely following this furry genius, "Do we have time for this? Do you need to soak all these components? I thought the Xandarians rebuilt her main compartment?"

"Hold it. Yes. Yes and no. Ahhhhhhhh! That's it," Rocket starts backing out of a ridiculously tiny recess, his hands visibly grimy, and clenched tightly with integral parts of _my_ ship.

"Sorry, Quill," he offers, looking irritatingly unrepentant as he carefully releasing the contents of his tiny humanoid hands into the segregated tubs of lubricants. The hues range from deep honey to crimson, "Gamora was right."

"How so?"

"This ship _is_ filthy."

Gamora told me that when I get angry, I lick my bottom lip. And I'm sure I just did it, because Rocket is gnawing on my last nerve. Dammit Yondu, how ever did you manage not killing my sassy self over all those years?

"Drax and Gamora's errand shouldn't take long," I'm putting in a serious effort not to come over as condescending, "am I correct to assume the parts you've sequestered are either a) not integral should we need to get the hell out of here or b) can be back in working order before their return?"

Instead of a verbal response, I am gifted the snarkiest grin imaginable. Rocket maneuvers his way to a bucket filled with orange goo, removes a sizable component, and holds it in the air as if it is the solution to a very important question. He proceeds to compare the part to a similar sized component, (albeit nearly unrecognizable; caked in layers of unspeakably dark grime), near his left toe. "Post Battle of Xandar, the _Milano_ was in shit-shape. The Xandarians had a limited time to give your girl the full face lift she deserves. Believe me, Quill, I know what a sluggish engine sounds like. So I'd expect a little more gratitude, given that this genius here," Rocket absurdly punctuates the sentence by giving himself two thumbs up, "can make lotsa headway during a routine pit stop."

"Then by all means proceed." I reign in my irritation, and quash the need to be right, "Thank you, Rocket. I mean it. I hope you know that I do appreciate everything - "

"Oh please. You can stop now, okay?" Rocket interrupts, as he continues to dip, clean and re-configure my ship's vital components while simultaneously critiquing my style of leadership, "Remember, too much gratitude can go the other way. I mean, coming from a humie like you, carrying on, 'I appreciate all you do,' might come over as insincere."

Sheesh. Working with Rocket is like walking a tightrope. It reminds me of a story mom read to me when I was little. A story about a girl and three bears. Something like, 'Not to hot, not to cold.'

"Nah," Rocket's voice cuts through my train of thought, "you're doin' a good job, Quill."

"Really?" And I mean it. I really want to know. I'm new to this leadership thing, and the only role model I've had is Yondu. Without warning, a tiny voice interrupts my thoughts.

"I am Groot."

"Wow. Unexpected." I scratch the back of my head, "Groot's talking now. That's cool."

"Yeah. Some might say." Rocket carefully gauges each degreaser and lubricant in progress, "But don't go all mental, Quill, everything is on course. Gamora and Drax left for the outpost incognito, right?"

"Yes. Why?"

"'Duh! 'Coz Gamora is damned recognizable."

Thank the universe has time to Rocket remind me that Gamora is one of the most wanted and hated beings this side of the universe. I know she can't be kept in a cage for the duration of her life, but I'm also more than aware of the type of creeps that hang out at these remote outposts. She's paired with Drax, but why didn't I go with them? Is this even rational? Am I going to feel like this every time she leaves my sight?

"Gamora has my helmet. She's worn it before..."

Rocket rolls his eyes, "Sheesh. Don't remind me."

Gamora _is_ the most capable assassin out there, i.e., a sociopath cybernetically altered her, and that makes her a near indestructible weapon. But there are always two sides to a coin, and I'll never forget how she was nearly killed in front of my eyes at that shithole intergalactic Xandarian prison. And how many individuals desired her death? Countless as the stars in the Milky Way…..

It's time to be honest with myself. I care about all of my Guardians, but Gamora? She's more than a Guardian. She's Gamora. _She's the one._ And the one thing that I'm not ready to dwell on, is that I'm pretty sure that my feelings for her are a one-way street. And I'm also fairly certain the reason she won't give me the time of day is exclusively my fault. Sure she derives from a similar mixture of heartache, tragedy and abuse. And I know I don't know all of the details, but beneath that gristly green exterior, well, that girl has got a lot of heart. It's her actions that speak louder than her fierce words – her beautiful dark eyes, that every once in a while, betray her efforts to be all kinds of tough and unapproachable. But then I had to go and blow it when I made to kiss her on Knowhere. I pushed her too far and came on too fast. So all in all, my move was one cosmic idiotic miscalculation. Huge. How the hell is she ever going to learn how to trust me? And thereby, trust my intentions. _Wait. What are my intentions?_

"Quill?"

"Look Rocket, I'm going to empty the compactors and blow out the main cabin filters," my mind is a blur of worry, "keep at it, okay? If we need to get the hell out of here, this ship better be ready to bolt."

"But they only left a half hour ago. We've not even refueled!"

"Ready means, ready, Rocket," I threaten even as I'm halfway up the main stairwell, powering towards the nearest Com-link.

And if I wasn't consumed by what might very well be an irrational fear, I just might have heard Rocket grumbling to the potted, sleepy, baby Groot, "Quill's snapped, you know? I'd place all my bets that he's going to check the open channel on his way to the compactors."

* * *

Next up? Chapter Three: Jealousy


	3. Chapter Three: Jealousy

_Free, on my own is the way I used to be  
Ah, but since I met you baby, love's got a hold on me  
_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Fooled Around and Fell in Love_

* * *

Chapter Three: Jealosy

 _En route to Asteria-III (_ from Kyrnstok Station VII)

A dust cloud's abstract pattern swirls above, producing a breathtaking backdrop against Gamora's equally striking silhouette. While my rods and cones adjust to a range of soothing blues set against brilliant shocks of orange matter, it's the small dark humanoid form that that commands my attention. Gamora is brooding, her body language says as much. Her sword rests against the railing as she methodically angles a stone against the menacing blade. Her head tilts left in concentration. It's more meditation than rote chore. Dare I interrupt?

I must. I've been waiting for a calm respite like this since I first laid eyes on Gamora outside the Broker's trading post on Xandar. The universe is finally gifting me the time and space where I can speak to her alone. It's my golden opportunity to confirm that the connection I feel for her is real, and if I'm lucky, reciprocated.

 _She's the one._

As I amble towards her, she doesn't look away from her disciplined task, but rather, mumbles something I can't quite make out. It might be something about swords, people without character, or anything that has to do with heartache, suffering, and powerlessness: the subjects of which she knows far too well.

I'm drifting closer, buoyed by the fact that she hasn't swiped at me for getting into her personal space. I'll settle for anything, an acknowledgement, shared laughter, or a glimpse into her hauntingly dark, but beautiful (like a Terran deer) eyes.

And as if the universe can read my prayers, Gamora lowers her sword and turns towards me. I implore the universe for telepathic powers, aggressively willing her to meet my gaze. But instead of my eyes, she's looking down at my ...… and soon her hands follow.

My breath hitches as she reaches for my belt buckle. Now I have deer eyes, i.e., a deer in the headlights. Is she going to touch me? Her fingers are dexterous and only linger for a second on my waistband before she unclips my Walkman and mumbles words that might be a question. Instead of responding, I place my headphones over her ears and dare to look into the dark pools of her eyes, an action that is momentarily safe as the sound waves overpower her sight. I cautiously try to read her reaction as the music flows from the metal box to the earbuds. It's an intensely private moment, and I thrill as she slowly relaxes and visibly releases into the beat.

 _She's the one._

My right hand makes the first move, extending forward in hopes of contact, I hover centimeters away, close enough that I can feel the heat from her body. As she sways to the music, the universe smiles on me again, and her hip bumps into my waiting hand.

When she doesn't react negatively, I allow my left hand to move into position, fingers gently brushing the back of her right hand. Still no reaction? My left hand gently closes around hers. I'm struck by their size, small but strong. And now I'm so close, so close that I can actually feel her breath on my chin. She sways slowly as my right hand gently molds around the ridge of her pelvic bone. I'm elated. Now we're molecules away, and I'm going numb as my brain redirects blood down past my navel. I can hear mom's music muffled through the ear buds. I close my eyelids in anticipation. Coaxing Gamora with my thoughts: _lean in, lean into me._

 _FOOLISH MORTAL. THANOS' CHILD IS NOT MEANT FOR A PATHETIC HALF-BREED THIEF. DIE DISHONORABLE WRETCH!_

I'm frozen still. Painfully unable to will my body into a desirable action that involves tackling Gamora to the ground with just enough time so that I can save the both of us from the lethal jet of purple light that blasts towards the back of her head. After impact, Gamora takes the brunt, and I'm reduced to a blubbering idiot, tears swell in my eyes as I do everything I can to revive her lifeless body.

"It's okay. It's okay." A hand repeatedly strokes my shoulder. I jolt violently upright before I'm able to gather my thoughts.

"Huh?"

"You're going to be okay, Quill."

Drax's piercing blue eyes boot me into reality, "You've just had a bad dream."

I'm speechless. Drax is less than a foot away from me in my personal quarters. He's, he's ….

"When my little Kamaria had bad dreams, I would often sing to her. Would you like me to sing to you?"

"No. No. No. Uh, thank you, no. I'm okay. I'm, yeah….uh, bad dream."

"What did you dream, companion?"

"I don't remember," I lie. "But I guess it's a good time to get up and see if I can't convince you 'morning beings' to change course."

"But why would we do that?"

"'Something good, Something bad?'" I draw up the blankets and arrange the pillow, simultaneously irritated and amused when Drax doesn't read my not so subtle body language that he should leave my space so I can straighten up for the day.

"Look, Drax, after I'm properly attired, I'll bring up the course change with everyone. It's just that, well," I pause to reflect what I can say that might give Drax just enough insight into my train of thought, "It's that I had something different in mind in regard to a 'bit of both.' Why? Because we just saved the galaxy. And then during a routine pit stop, you and Gamora find the first sad story you run into, and boom, we're off like the A-team."

"The A-team?"

"Yeah, the A-team."

Drax squints, as if by doing so, he might process the meaningless words I've carelessly tossed in his direction. He feigns irritation, crossing his arms while waiting patiently for an explanation. Dammit, this bro is not going to leave until he gets some clarification.

"Okay. On my planet, the A-team is also a legendary gang of five," I pause, considering how much I'm going to need to simplify this tale for Drax, "and just like the Guardians, The A-Team was known for always saving the day, except they didn't have their records expunged."

"They were fugitives?"

"Yes. But they were always taking on these really sad stories. The thing is, every single time they did so, this kind of altruistic action consistently threatened to put them back in custody. Yes, they were legendary heroes with honorable intentions, like the Guardians. However, and here is the clincher, they were always tackling 'something good.' And we just did something incredibly good, right? So now it's time to balance out our karma."

"Karma?"

Since there is no way Drax is moving until I answer all his questions, I give up and start throwing on a new shirt and fresh pair of pants. I guess underwear will need to wait until a later date. Either way, I'm starting to feel a little frustrated about not having been there to make the decision with Gamora in the first place. Now this is Drax and Gamora's gig. And yeah, I know it's dick-ish, but I'm jealous. It's imperative that I make up for my idiot mistake on Knowhere. And as usual, this new adventure isn't going as planned.

But on second thought, perhaps I don't want to bring up 'changing course' with the crew. My priority is to regain Gamora's trust. And this time, I want to be the one who is altruistic from the beginning. And that means being more of a leader like Hannibal versus the Faceman. Celestials know, I've been the Faceman for far too long.

* * *

Next up? Chapter Four: TBD


	4. Chapter Four: Setback

_Stone age love and strange sounds too  
Come on, baby, let me get to you_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Cherry Bomb_

* * *

Chapter Four: Setback

 _Asteria-III_

An eerie sensation pulses through the air. My heart stops in my chest and nostrils flare as I catch a whiff of a unique, but powerful odor I've only experienced three times in my life. The first time was a few years before I was abducted by the _Ravagers_. A time when I got caught in a powerful lightning storm on a warm spring afternoon back in my home state of Missouri. But that first incident was nature, now, as an adult, I associate this awareness as that 'holy shit' moment that causes all the hair on your body to salute military style. Yup. I'm probably not going to wake up for a few days, and if I do, there's bound to be a whole lot of discomfort. No time to drop, duck, or cover before hitting the ground because any second now…

Zzzzsssssssstttttttoooooowww. BOOM.

1.) Blinding light. 2.) I feel more than I hear the sonic explosion.

Wow.

I'm still alive. For the eighty-ninth time, my helmet saves the day. Miraculously, the metal plates and astro-wear lining cushion my skull from concussion and fracture, and, thank the _celestials_ , muffles the deafening roar of warfare.

From my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Rocket mobilizing at breakneck speed, laughing maniacally while projecting a stream of energy bolts from his duel-launcher pack. Another large explosion shakes the ground, the source of which appears to be coming from the direction of the deathly weapon that nearly split me in two.

Pulling away from underneath a pile of rubble, I fire up my jets, "time for a better perspective," I mumble aloud, bursting upwards from my near rocky grave. My mind gravitates back to our Guardians on the frontline. I can only hope that Drax and Gamora are faring better in their attempts to rescue captives from the slave encampment.

Meanwhile, Rocket and I are in charge of securing the entry and exit port.

"They gotta be making a dent, otherwise we wouldn't be getting so much attention," I recognize Rocket's voice cutting through the battleground as he powers up his own jet boots and levitates beside me, disarmingly eye-level. My helmet streams in a bulk of new data, readjusting its sensors in an attempt to locate the next burst of energy, "You okay, Quill?"

"Never better."

"They got some firepower, eh? And it just about fried you."

I am less than amused that Rocket doesn't seem that put out about my near death experience. I mean, as he said, I was nearly incinerated.

"Gamora inherits the _Milano_ ," I offer, needling Rocket to the best of my ability while I wait for the info in my helmet to process into data I can quantify, "so don't get your hopes up. Anyway, my sensors are picking up a huge build up of energy near the far side of that main section, three levels up."

"Don't misread my amusement, Quill," Rocket growls back, pulling a small electronic pad from his side pouch and pointing it in the direction of the location, "Some of the weaponry these chumps are using is just lightin' up my brain with delightful fantasies! They got some good shit, Quill."

"You can plunder all you want my furry little friend, but first we gotta get our Guardians, and the captives, safely cleared."

I pause. Something's amiss. Dammit. It's way to quiet.

"Gamora? Drax?"

Nothing. Damn. My gut is a pretzel.

"Rocket! I want that ground transport near our exit route ASAP."

"But Quill," Rocket frets, "the closer they get to the barricade, the more likely the transport is gonna get blown up too."

"Yeah. But we need perfect timing. And look at…"

"Giant turd!" Rocket gasps, "I see it, Quill. I'm on it. I'll notify transport."

"That's gotta be them, right?" But per usual, I'm talking to no one, as Rocket is already on his way to ensure the transport makes it on cue. Well, I've got to hand it to the little rodent. He can flip a lot of shit, but when things get real. Rocket gets real too.

The rest of what I remember is a blur. I remember watching a growing dust cloud transform into a host of humanoid captives running for their lives. The frightened humanoids jet-line towards an opening we blasted into the barricade less than two hours prior. But instead of running with them, I'm flying towards them, directly into a jet of red energy bolts, the opposite of what my gut is telling me to do.

My eyes scan the back of the pack, I'm looking for Drax's immense form almost as much I'm trying to spot the frame of a much smaller green woman. _Where the fuck are they?_ But before I can swear aloud, I am able to make out their obvious outlines just in time to see why they are waylaid. It's incredible, really, as both Guardians have two small beings strapped to them. Celestials know, they are moving forward as fast as they can, but it's hard with all the extra weight, the pivoting, dodging death rays, and the constant need to fire back.

Me? I'm glad you asked. I've double barrels in each hand, firing so furiously, that days later my fingers cramp from all the pressure and repetitive motion. Don't mess with Star Lord. I'm all kinds of adrenaline as I weave frenetically in and out of the dusty atmosphere. Nothing pulls me away from my homicidal haze until I hear Gamora's voice screaming into my ears: "Dammit, Quill. Retreat!"

* * *

At the end of the day, the Guardians of the Galaxy save a whopping 57 captives: mostly men, but some are women and children. I won't lie. It's not exactly a happy ending, for we lose 6 captives during the rescue - although it's important to note that none of the casualties are children. And that's primarily thanks to Drax and Gamora, whose personal efforts kept four little ones: three girls (two under the age of ten) and one boy alive.

So at the close of our mission, our grateful hosts desperately want us to stick around. In fact, they are trying to give us extra material goods, weapons, food, and in a few cases their women, i.e., anything poorer folk can offer you to say thanks when they don't have the financial wherewithal. In reality, this is hard for me to swallow. I feel unbelievably miserable about the entire affair. I mean, I'm tremendously proud of the Guardians. Pleased like hell that we can be of service. But all of this? It's super hard, (even for this hybrid thief), to watch our hosts try to give us the shirts off their own backs. Even Rocket is noticibly uncomfortable. And dude, that's saying a lot.

We huddle in the corner of the main recovery unit, Drax interacting with the two little girls he rescued. It is heartwarming, and heartbreaking at the same time, to watch Drax engaging in a fatherly/protective role – just as he might have at the same age with his daughter.

"See, Quill?" Drax smiles, "Just like the A-team. Right?"

"Right."

But, per usual, it's Gamora that has me mesmerized. I quietly observe her help the older girl untangle her long unkempt hair. With methodical care, Gamora using her knife skillfully (and aesthetically) to cut out several matted sections near base of the child's head. Perhaps the rescued boy, who remains close by Gamora's side, is a sibling?

"Thank you for taking care of us." The boy smiles shyly.

Gamora's kindness radiates. She stoops down to brush some dirt from the boy's forehead, " _you're_ going to be okay." And then opens up to face both of them, "you're _both_ going to be just fine."

"Please don't go," the boy pleads.

My emotions are stretched and pulled watching Gamora's best efforts to comfort the boy. She points towards me, " _this_ is my family. Now that you are all safe, we've got to help others. People with the same level of need. And someday when you grow up big and strong…"

"Like Drax?" the boy nods towards me, "and that guy?"

"Yes," Gamora's smile widens, "Like Drax, and 'that guy' is Star Lord. Then both of you can help bring balance to the galaxy, too."

"Oh please," the boy implores, "please, please stay."

Gamora's bites her upper lip. Her eyes turn towards me, but instead of focusing on anything in particular, she looks through me. She's evaluating the situation, calculating the scenario. Finally, she gathers the boy's hand and leads him and the girl to a few elders near the far end of the room.

As Gamora makes to part ways, the boy won't let go of her hand. I feel tears forming... and I'm pretty sure that I can't do this. I can't break down here. And shit, Gamora is moving towards me. I quickly use my thumb and forefinger to wipe at the corners of my eyes. My anxiety swells. At any dammed moment the PTSD could flare up and I'll experience a panic attack in front of these strangers, in front of the Guardians...in front of her.

"Peter?"

 _She's the one._

Wait. Why should I hide my discomfort? My pain. My panic attack. Gamora knows me. Fuck it, Yondu. I'm letting Gamora in.

"Peter?"

"That was super, uh," I'm shaking my head because the words are not flowing like they should, "I mean, what you were able to do for those little guys..." I pause, trying to get out of my head.

Gamora arches an eyebrow, "Peter, are you okay?"

I nod slowly, and gain some comfort seeing that Gamora's feeling pretty caught up too.

I move towards her, compelled to brush a strand of her long dark hair from her eyes, but immediately freeze in terror when I see that the inside of her right arm is caked with dried blood. _Celestials!_

"Is all of that blood yours?"

Gamora is taken aback. She lifts her arm and inspects the deep crimson that rubs off on opposite fingertips. In response, I rapidly orbit her, manically looking for the source of the wound. She too, begins to search.

"Stop," I breathe, "let me...let me get a closer look."

Gamora stills. With trembling fingers, I carefully probe her outer wear until I locate a wide tear in her jacket below her armpit. My heartbeat increases as the adrenaline kicks in fast and furious.

"Peter."

"Yes?" I respond dutifully, my full focus is set on removing her jacket. I'm relieved that she's not fighting as my fingers fumble with the most ill-behaved zipper in the galaxy.

"It's okay. The blood is dry. I feel okay. You don't….."

But I'm not listening because _this_ is not negotiable. I need to know.

"Peter, you don't have to find that something inside, like you said before, whatever helped…."

"Huh? Thing inside... Oh, you mean, find that something inside me that is incredibly heroic?"

"Peter. Do you need to do this?"

"Yes! Now, shhhh."

"No! I mean, do you need to keep carrying this? This, this…..this need to prove yourself?"

Phew. The zipper is finally working. And somehow I've managed to remove her jacket in a way that doesn't appear to cause her any discomfort.

"Peter!"

Universe! Gamora's undershirt confirms perforation. Blood has stained and saturated the already dark material, and through the process of drying, the fibers are no longer pliable. With the utmost care, my fingers gently ease the material back so I can get a better idea of the size and scope.

"Peter, it's not about _my_ wound."

I stop. Two reasons. Yup. Now she has my full attention. Somehow Gamora's unwrapped me. Unpackaged me. Found _it_. Found my wound before I can inspect hers. And second, I stop because I can't peel up her shirt any further without exposing her uh, her….

I swallow the lump in my throat, "I'm trying. Really. And," her eyes are fixed on mine, and for the umpteenth time today, tears begin forming fast and furious. Dammit. One of the tears break free, and I feel it wind its way through my stubble, before pooling at the tip of my chin, I look away quickly wiping at my jaw.

After I regain composure, I feel her hands on mine. She squeezes both of them emphatically.

"Thank you," I manage to croak out, "I haven't had anything like this."

Gamora nods, then whispers, "Peter?" Her eyes motion to the lumbering giant headed our way as she silently mouths, "Drax."

Unclasping my hands, she slowly pulls away quickly adjusting her shirt and jacket.

"It turns out the girls only have one living parent." Drax's expression is crestfallen, "It's not going to be easy for them."

I nod, "I'm sorry Drax. This can't be easy for you."

"No. No it's not. They remind me of my little girl."

I don't know what to say, so I give Drax a hug, clapping my hand on his back. "They'll be okay, thanks to you."

"Yeah." Drax sighs reflectively, "You must be glad you didn't make us change course."

"Why would we change course?" Gamora arches an eyebrow while patiently waiting for an explanation.

Fuck, Drax. Really? I've just had a super fantastic connection with Gamora. And now this? This is not how the A-team works. Dude! BA does not question Hannibal! But then again, BA understood metaphors and had a dammed EQ. Celestials!

* * *

Chapter 5: Staying Alive, or something like that….


	5. Chapter Five: Revelation

_We'll get it together and we'll get it all done  
Some day  
When your head is much lighter_

 _-_ Lyrics from _O-o-h Child_

* * *

Chapter Five: Revelation

 _En route from Asteria-III to the Talon Refueling Station_

Upon leaving Asteria-III, the overall mood of the _Milano's_ crew might be described as somber. Each Guardian has sequestered him or herself off in one-way or another, mental or physical. Speaking of mental and physical, I'll keep it real. I personally feel like a worn out reactor core. Yup, all those tiny fissures are building up into a much larger problem. And most captains know that it's not the size, (ha ha), but the quantity of little cracks, that can shut down the core. It's the running joke, "crack's kill."

Dammit. Why did it seem so much brighter when we pushed off from Xandar? Sigh. It's because I feel responsible for the success of this new Guardian crew that I find myself trying to figure out what went wrong post Asteria-III. As the leader of this vessel, is there anything different I should be doing? To pass the lousy afternoon, I spend a portion of the day observing my quirky cohorts. That's what a good leader does, right? Thus far, my personal observations are as follows:

1\. Post-mission, Drax is remarkably quiet. He spends most of the afternoon visibly suppressed, with the exception of that annoying scraping sound which derives from his obsessive knife sharpening routine. 2. Wait, add Gamora to that mix. She seems especially reflective, more on that soon.* But before I move on from my favorite green alien, another astute observation: since leaving Asteria, Gamora has spoken less than twenty-five words to me, and yet, she's been much more demonstrative with Drax. Imagine that. This little gem of a fact is basically unhinging me. 3. Initially, Rocket was rather happy, (bordering on smug), babbling non-stop about converting some of his well-earned bounty into incredibly deadly DIY 'Rocket-style' weapons of mass destruction. Then, less than an hour in-flight, Rocket admits to all that he feels "uniquely deflated" because he took every weapon and supply the over-generous Asterian's offered. 4. In addition, upon return to the _Milano_ , Rocket is immediately bombarded by a super needy, highly irritated, on verge of a massive tantrum, baby Groot. 5. It is now grossly apparent that Groot _despises_ being left out of the pack. But for Celestial's sake, Groot is still an infant, encased in a flowerpot.

*Now, as promised, back to Gamora. Moments after loading the _Milano_ with the last of our newly garnered supplies, I insist that she let me have a look at her injury, as I can help her clean, dress, or even go as far as applying stitches if necessary. And keep in mind, although what I am about to relay does not sound horrible, lets just say Gamora rejected my offer _sans_ emotion. She said, and I quote: "Thanks Peter, I've got it. We still have the anti-bacterial ointment and antibiotics? Great. I'll need to use the hyper shower first."

And with that, I'm feeling beyond melancholy. One late hyper shower later, I sit in my quarters, spread out in the middle of my disheveled bed, the Walkman feeding me tracks from mom's original mix-tape. Even the music can't drown out the questions that rotate in my head: Why do I keep making the same mistakes with Gamora? And why do I care?

 _She's the one. And because you love her, stupid._

I prop my pillow up against the bulkhead, stretch out on the bed and let the music wash over me - soothe my nerves, fill my heart. Yes, fill that giant festering wound I've been nursing since mom got sick and died. Dammit. I'm so angry that she died. Livid that the goddamned universe took away my advocate, my best friend, the only one who understood me, the only person who loved me unconditionally, and reciprocally, the only person I loved. And dad? Well, he left and never came back. And that injury hurts pretty dammed bad too.

So here I am. Abandoned. Not once, but twice. I know mom didn't want to leave me. But dad? Why didn't he come back for me?

And then there is the fire I had to put out on Asteria-III. I'm not being literal of course. It was how I tried to explain my way out of Drax's idiotic revelation. And dude, it's not because I didn't address the question of 'changing course,' it's because Gamora saw through the length of time it took me to answer the question in the first place. As though I had to dig deep to come up with an explanation that sounded a lot more altruistic. Sigh. She probably thought I was feeding her my regular fare of 'bullshit Quill charm.' Universe! All I can do is lose myself in the music...

 _Some day, yeah  
_ _We'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun  
_ _Some day  
_ _When the world is much brighter_

Looks like it's going to be another rough night. Ouch. Dammit. Dammit. Have I mentioned how much my hands are still all bruised to hell? It hurts to do just about everything: from washing my hair, using the WC, to turning on the faucet. Oh hell no! I'm not going to shave for days. Even depressing the play button on my Walkman hurts.

Time to shut down. Yup. I'm closing my eyelids now, letting the music take over….

Wait. What's that?

Dude?

What the hell is crawling up my leg!?

I'm stunned as I open my eyes, only to find a tiny pair staring right back at me.

"Groot?"

"I am Groot."

"Wow! I can't believe you climbed up here." I pitch forward, taking a closer look. Little Groot is out of his container, ( _Celestials!),_ and he has little legs!

"I didn't know you could live outside your pot. Does that mean you are all post-pot trained? Uh, that you don't need to be confined in soil anymore?"

"I am Groot."

"You know, I wish my translator worked a little better with you. But I'm guessing that you said that you are just fine outside of the container?"

"I am Groot," he smiles and inches a few steps closer, "I am Groot?"

I return the smile, although I am uncertain what this little guy is trying to say. I follow his eyes, and they seem to be trained on my Walkman.

"You want to listen?"

"I am Groot."

"Sure." I place one of the headphones near the place where I think Groot's ear might be.

Groot's reaction is downright adorable. Dude, he's actually grooving to my tunes. "Good stuff, huh? Yeah. It makes me feel better too."

"I am Groot?" He looks to be offering the headset back.

"No, it's okay. You can keep listening. I'm feeling a little better, it's just, well, this Guardian business can get a little confusing, you know?"

Groot settles down, cross-legged, eyes wide, "I am Groot?"

This is perplexing. I get the notion Groot's trying to find out why I'm so damn melancholy.

"It's complicated, Groot. But let's just say I'm pretty sure I did all the wrong things in the eyes of a certain crewmate back on Asteria. And it's not what I said, per se, it's what she read between the lines."

"I am Groot?"

Sigh. "Women are complicated, little one."

Is it me? Or is that a little smile forming on tiny Groot's face?

"Okay, Groot, It's late. I'm overtired. You go ahead, keep listening, but I'm gonna rest my eyes, okay?"

* * *

It's dark. Pitch black. As my eyes adjust to the low light, I'm suddenly aware of my surroundings. I'm buckled into a pilot's chair, hands locked onto the duel flight controls. I blink twice to clear my head; I've been here before: in this chair, in this very same space pod, looking out through a large circular windshield at the wreckage of an identical carrier. I swallow uncomfortably, for this view is nothing more than the sickening aftermath of a tremendous explosion. I am terror-struck and violently distressed that I'll see what should have been a fatality, floating amidst the lifeless space debris.

And that's when I see her, floating like an angel, arms wide as if somehow she might fly away from this colossal disaster I've brought upon her. Disarmed, vulnerable, beaten: these three descriptive words seize my chest; my lungs shudder. They are words that could never, should never, describe Gamora, not while she's breathing that is.

I gape at the lost warrior angel drifting in the haze of green and red dust particles, their complementary hues bounce wildly off the shiny metallic detritus. The swirling color combination conjures up Christmas like imagery: an ornament, or Gamora, the unlikely centerpiece of a snow globe. And then without warning, a ray of light backlights my heroine like a halo, but there is nothing sacred about this. Rather, the light ray is but a force field that serves one purpose: to shunt in the real reason for the season. And I watch helplessly as the orb assumes into a spacecraft that will deliver a powerful weapon to the worst megalomaniac, Ronan.

 _This is the fucking crossroad, Quill._

I've been here before. But this time I don't have to be heroic. I can leave her here, the gorgeous centerpiece of this most holy space ruin. Rocket explains that Gamora's modifications won't be able to keep her alive for long. Fortunately, she's unconscious from the blast. She won't feel a thing, right?

 _She's the one._

My heart is hollow. The shiny red button that will re-engage the ignition is less than a quarter inch from my fingertip. I'll never forget this precise moment. I am one button away from a completely different future….my finger hovers, quivers slightly, but is unable to depress the starter key.

 _I'm so angry that she died. Livid that the goddamned universe took away my advocate, my best friend, the only one who understood me, the only person who loved me unconditionally, and reciprocally the only person I loved._

 _I'm so angry that she's dying. Livid that the goddamned universe is about to take away my new advocate, my soon to be best friend, given who she is and all of her past experiences, she's the only one who will possibly be able to understand me, the only person who might love me unconditionally, and reciprocally the only person I lo….._

"Ohhhh, Dammit."

My finger falls away from the re-ignition and punches the comm line. I message Yondu and blatantly ignore Rocket. By rote, I initiate my mask, open the hatch and fire my thrusters.

Somehow I found it in me, yet again, and dammit, I know that if I have to re-live this day over and over again, I'll do the same thing every time. Because through this singular action I've somehow fucking transformed myself, or I've allowed myself to be transformed, because this is the first time I've decided to do something unselfish. The first time I've decided to do something that really matters, 1) more than the material gain, and 2) something that Yondu didn't corner me into or hold over my head. It's the first dammed time I've had the courage to put my hand out there and take hold. And as I fly for towards her I realize I've never embraced someone so emphatically since….

I take a deep breath before decompressing my helmet so that I that I can save her life. Even though subconsciously, I know with every breath I take, that she's just saved mine – or maybe better put, put in the first stitch necessary for me to close up my gaping mental wound. Wow. I've never been this close to her before. In a few swift steps I re-initiate my helmet. I feel her body twitch as she takes in her first breath of air. And simultaneously I've taken my last breath unless Yondu pulls up fast. Holding on to her takes massive effort, with every ounce of energy I use, my cells plead for oxygen.

Everything stings, especially my eyes, I try to blink away the irritation, but even that simple act fails. My skin tingles and pinches back at me like I'm on pins and needles. I'm trying like hell not to panic as all of my organs scream for oxygen.

 _Yondu! Come. The. Fuck. On!_

I sense a light source, even though my eyes are not really fucking working. I feel the pull of a force, and even though I'm starting to lose consciousness, I fight with every sense of being not to lose hold of myself, or her. Losing both of us over this would be idiotic. Shit. I can't do this, I'm going to die. How fucking embarrassing. Rocket was right….

BAM.

I hit the ground hard, still holding on to her for dear life. Finally. A breath. Then another. Then another. And slowly my eyes work, and she's right there with me, sputtering for air. We're intertwined, compromised – both retching for oxygen on a ridiculously cold metallic floor.

"Quill," Gamora mouths weakly in a nearly unrecognizably and highly impotent tone. Her legs reflexively tighten around mine and I cup her chin in my hand as her breath regulates.

I struggle to get my bearings: from death, to life, to finding myself lying between this women's thighs, cradling her head in my arms, catching our breaths as if we were recovering from something far different.

"What happened?" Gamora wheezes. She's getting her lungs back, speaking in short bursts, from lack of oxygen or pain. I feel her noticeably heaving under my weight. I shift to my left, absorbing as much of my mass that I can bear on my left elbow.

I have her, all of her, her full attention, the dark pools of her black eyes gaze back into mine.

"I saw you out there…..an I don't know what came over me…but I couldn't let you die."

I'm trying like hell to understand her expression. Gamora's countenance borders on incredulous: a repressed smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. It's fucking genuine. I'm electrified.

"I found something inside of myself….something….. incredibly heroic. I mean, not to brag, but I can objectively…..

But this time she doesn't ask about the orb. And the exhausting weight of gravity against metal floorboards doesn't grind against our bones, or feel so inhospitable while in contact with our enmeshed bodies. Gamora leans forward and uses her core strength to draw us closer. And this time, Yondu and his crew don't haul up and interrupt as I try in every possible way to merge into her. Her legs encircle my waist. She feels amazing, especially when her fingers curl into the back of my head, weaving through my hair before pulling my lips down to her. Dumfounded, I'm covering her neck and jawline with my needy lips, (will I ever get this chance again? Faster, Quill). Gamora seems equally electrified, demonstrative in her actions…. as if I've woken up something inside her too.

 _She's the one._

Any second now, and I will combust.

"Gamora!" I gasp.

"I am Groot."

I'm jolted awake, face to face with a tiny twig that is trembling beside my beloved headset and Walkman.

"I am Groot?"

"I'm okay." I moan regrettably. "Are you okay, little guy? I nearly knocked you over."

"I am Groot!"

"Sorry. I was having an intense, uh, I was dreaming. Do you have vivid dreams, too?"

"I am Groot."

"That's what I thought." I shake my head, before wiping my brow with the back of my sore hand.

"She's the one."

"Wha- I'm sorry? Groot?"

"I am Groot."

I'm stunned, yet too fatigued to process what just transpired, i.e., what I think I heard out of baby Groot's mouth. Whatever just happened, I'm pretty sure I heard what I wanted to hear. _Some things never change, Quill. Sigh._ I slump back onto my pillow, slowly stretching my swollen, cramping fingers, before rolling onto my right side.

Groot has sidled off the far side of the bed and is moving to safer quarters. After some time passes, I'm able to calm down and relax. I press one side of the pillow against my face, wishing and wondering if I'll ever have the opportunity to share this space with her. With eyes shut tight, I try like hell to get back into the dream. Tragically, no matter how much I will myself to return into that space where I am all tangled up with her strong green limbs, for now, the moment has passed.

Perhaps I should give up and go to the medical hatch and down a few anti-inflammatories? They'll block out some of the pain, but only enough to take off the edge.

* * *

Chapter 6: Pick up sticks….medical kit.

As I can't reply back via the messaging service on this site: a very special thanks to my anonymous "Guest" reviewer. Honestly, that's the nicest praise imaginable. Now I only hope that I can continue to deliver. Thank you.


	6. Chapter Six: Generosity

_Trying to live without your love  
Is one long sleepness night  
Let me show you girl  
That I know wrong from right_

 _-_ Lyrics from _I Want You Back_

* * *

Chapter Six: Generosity

 _Aboard the Milano, Talon Refueling Station_

"Rocket?" I lightly rap my knuckle against the corridor wall outside an area Rocket has designated his personal living quarters. With Rocket the smallest of the Guardians, and Groot still but the size of a small tree branch, the _Milano's_ auxiliary storage closet houses both of them without issue.

"Rocket? I know you're not a morning pers- uh, individual, but I need the list."

I pull back a section of canvas that serves as their privacy barrier, to peer inside. "Rocket. I need your list of supplies."

Rocket's eyelids flicker for a several seconds before he gives any indication that he is conscious. "Quill?" his speech slurs.

"Speaking. Morning, Rocket. Good morning, Groot. We've landed."

"You look terrible," Rocket squints his eyes in response to the narrow stream of artificial light I've allowed in, courtesy of the corridor's floor illuminators, "and don't wake the baby."

"The list, Rocket." I hold out my hand, palm side up, revealing the resulting Asteria-III injuries sustained from a combination of gravel and pressure burns.

"Do I look like I have a list?"

I lick my bottom lip, because I'm in a pretty foul mood too, "Didn't sleep so great myself. But I was under the impression that you were going to give me an inventory of materials needed to manufacture a helmet for Gamora."

"Oh yeah," Rocket lazily rubs two balled up fists against his bleary morning eyes, "I need two full-spectrum range lenses, circular or ovular will work, uh between 20 and 30 micro-segments long. Or a sheet, minimal 5ms thick, of similar material will do. But it's got to be at least 60 by 60ms, and durable enough to withstand the pressure from my laser cutter. On second thought, err on more material just in case I fuck it up, like 80 by 80. Plus, I could use…."

"No, Rocket." I'm firm in my response and tight-lipped, not to mention nearly unapproachable at this hour without any of Yondu's special brew of Kohva in my system. Kohva, for any aliens out there reading this confounded journal, is akin to what Terrans call coffee, i.e., a warm or room temperature caffeinated beverage. "I asked you to make up a list before you left your shift. Why? Because, as I told you earlier, once we landed, I'd be the one going out for the re-fuel and barter."

"Well, sorry Quill. I forgot!" Rocket cocks his head to the side and simultaneously bares all of his sharp tiny teeth in order to produce the most condescending expression I've ever had the pleasure of observing off his smug mug. I think it's supposed to be a smile. But Universe knows!

"That, and don't even try to correct me, is a fake smile. And," at this point I'm not trying to hide my irritation, "maybe this little soapbox speech will serve as a reminder that after the last touchdown for refuel and supplies, _you_ suggested Gamora needed better cover up, therefore, you and I discussed creating a helmet – one like mine, but made specifically for her. Remember? You told me you could build one if you had the right supplies. And considering that one, we've got goods to barter with from the Asterian haul, and two, we're at a sizable trading post, well, it's time to produce, you ill-tempered raccoon."

My vexation seems to be working, for Rocket pauses after my mini-rant, as if he's weighing in on how much he wants to engage with an equally irritable foe, "Give me a few minutes, you lousy humie. I'm dammed tired, too. You know why? Because this little twig came back from your quarters, post-shift, in a state. Said you nearly killed him when you almost rolled over him or something like that. Why'd ya hafta rile a baby up like that? _You_ had a bad night of sleep? _I had a bad night of sleep!_ You're the gift that keeps on giving."

I play like I'm ignoring every word that comes out of his vile rodent maw, when in fact, my jaws are so tightly clenched I'm probably going to give myself a headache. "When I come back here in a few, I want that list."

"Take Drax, too. Will ya?"

"Why?" I snap back, "Drax is not expecting to go, It's already planned. I'm taking Gamora."

"Well, for one, he's all depressed and shit after interacting with all those little kiddies on Asteria. So if you get him off this ship, it will, you know, distract his brain."

"Look, if Drax wants distraction, or needs to be all parental, let him tend to the baby," I offer, not the least bit amused or empathetic after a shitty nights sleep, "I'm going with my original plan. I'm taking Gamora."

"Ha! Good. She's in about as good spirits with you, as I am. Have at it. You want ill-tempered? She's all yours!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying what I know to be true."

"Fuck," I mumble in a low tone, "I knew she was pissed at me." Celestials, I need some Kohva. _And_ more pain meds. "Rocket. What would you do?"

"Get out while you can."

"Stop it. We're family. What can I do to get on her good side?"

Rocket pauses, rubbing the tiny white hairs on the bottom of his chin thoughtfully before responding, "She's smart Quill. Her type goes on actions, not words. She reads you by watching what you do more than what you say. If you keep trying to explain your way out of everything, she's gonna continue to lose trust and respect."

"What!" I object wildly, "That makes bullshit sense! The mission was Drax and Gamora's, right? And last I checked, I _did_ the right actions. Asteria? Look at these!" I thrust both of my hands out and twirl them inches in front of Rocket's nose. "My hands have only stopped cramping in the last five hours. This is proof that there was no hesitation in my actions. I went at it full on - full intent. I was totally on board with their mission!"

"Who are you trying to convince, Quill? Don't get all crazy humie on me! Gamora found out that your original intent was all that 'course change' business."

"Words, Rocket! Words. Not actions. I might have _said_ those words to Drax, but I didn't act on them. No! I _acted_ with their decision to help the Asterians!"

"But what was your first inclination?" Rocket counters, arms defensively crossed.

"This isn't helping, Rocket. I need helpful advice that makes dammed sense!"

"But it is simple, Quill. Especially when it comes to Ms. Green. All you have to do is think about others first. That's how Gamora operates. She keeps other's needs in mind, and then she works directly to give them what they need. It's clear and simple, you know, 'what you see is what you get.' But unlike Gamora, you complicate the shit out of everything. So my guess is that Gamora thinks you have ulterior motives. Why? Because your actions don't always meld together with your intentions, and given the Asteria thing, maybe Gamora is trying to figure out a pattern of behavior.

"But in the past I could see it, well, maybe….but then, you see…." I sputter trying to find the right way to explain myself in both actions and intent.

"See?" Rocket shakes his head in disgust, "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Your being all complicated and thinking too much. Say what you mean, mean what you say."

"Okay," I clear my throat and try to keep it simple. "I need a list of supplies. Stat."

"Somewhat better," Rocket muses, "although the only thing you said revolves around you and your needs, but I've seen it in your type, and it's usually the result of abuse, neglect and trauma. And I'm not saying that I am any better at it than you, but the difference is….. I own it. You see? I own my selfishness and duplicity."

"Well, thanks, Rocket," I blurt out sarcastically, "You know that I was abducted and raised by Ravagers!"

"And it shows, Quill."

I'm dumfounded and quickly put in my place by his assessment. Damn, emotional intelligence-wise, Rocket is a lot smarter than I give him credit for.

"Are you ready, Quill?"

I startle at hearing Gamora's voice. Universe! I wonder how long she's been standing behind me, and in that vein, how much she's heard. Well, no time like the present to test out Rocket's theory.

"Yes. Good morning. I'm ready as soon as I get Rocket's list." I reply truthfully.

"Here is what Drax requires," she hands me a small electronic tablet, "I am ready."

"Thanks," I look over Drax's list, which basically showcases two items that shouldn't be hard to acquire, "How's your injury?"

"It does not cause any discomfort."

"I'm glad to hear that." I say it, and I mean it, before turning my attention back to Rocket, "The list?"

Rocket winks, "That's better, Quill."

Dammit. I shake my head in silence, unable to suppress the irritation.

"What?! Did I use the wrong eye?"

"It doesn't matter what eye you use, Rocket," I fume, "The point is, ohhh… nevermind!"

"I don't understand you, humie," Rocket huffs, producing what appears to be a balled up piece of paper from the side pouch of his right pant-leg, "but here's a dammed list. And if you can find the last enumerated item on my list, buy 'um out, okay?"

I snatch Rocket's balled up paper without looking at him, or even offering a minimal 'thank you' or 'good bye.' My frustration has hit a new level and if I don't get out of Rocket's general vicinity, I'm afraid I'm going to say something I won't be able to take back. Changing from a manipulative thief to an altruistic leader is not going to happen overnight. Especially _sans_ sleep. I hope Gamora is in a better mood than I, or this is going to make for one tense set of errands.

* * *

Chapter 7: Discipline


	7. Chapter Seven: Discipline

_Make me baby, make me know you really care  
Make me jump into the air_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Moonage Daydream_

* * *

Chapter Seven: Discipline

 _Talon Trading Platform Beta-12X_

This truly is a happening hub. A line to gain entry wraps around the exterior of the trading post all the way to the fueling dock. Gamora and I inch forward at a snails pace: Gamora utilizes Rocket's DIY remote to mobilize our cargo the same amount of forward steps.

"Very handy, uh, the device Rocket engineered," I remark approvingly. I'm trying to be civil, trying to act as if I'd slept well the night shift prior. Yet again, I've been gifted the rare opportunity to spend time one-on-one with Gamora sans the other Guardians: a scenario that hasn't transpired since _Knowhere_.

Since the Guardians departure from _Asteria-III_ , Gamora remains somewhat pensive. And it's not that I'm too tired to care about her demeanor, rather, I need to focus all my energies on the present task – that's how dammed sleepy I am. I rub at my left eye and manage to suppress a yawn. "We've been in this line forever," I grumble, fumbling with my left jacket sleeve to check the time, "Celestials! Nearly two earth hours have passed, and we're only halfway to the exchange hub!"

"Peter, we shouldn't split up." Gamora speaks quietly, but with absolute conviction. Have I mentioned how uncanny it is that she can read my mind?

"Bear with me, okay?" I pause briefly to assess the situation, "I mean, you're right. It's not ideal to split up with all this gear. But we need to make up for lost time."

"An opinion, Star Lord?" the left corner of Gamora's mouth upturns for a split second, a rare half-smile, "From my experience, impulsivity does not provide desirable results."

When Gamora utters 'Star Lord,' a shiver jolts through me faster than a warm cup of Yondu's kovah. As she doesn't use the designation often, when she does, I flash with pride.

"Perhaps I'll," I stop to dig out a digital display from my side pouch. I engage the last opened screen to rehash the _Talon's_ official entry procedures. I scroll through pages of tiny printed legalese, "Hmmmm, the faster our info is in the system, we can bypass this line and jump into the 'fast track.' That's it! I'm going to re-transmit our log to this 'more official' looking receiver.'" I nod in the direction of what appears to be a shorter, more organized effort.

"Did you not transmit the log prior to landing?" Gamora points out impartially, her eyes narrow as she observes the 'fast track' lane. "The line is more efficient, but has twice the security detail."

"I did," I confirm, "but what's interesting is right here." I hold up the tablet and nod my head emphatically. "See? A totally different transmission code!"

"And you believe…." Gamora starts before I finish her sentence.

"Retransmitting our documents to this 'more official' looking portal can't hurt. In fact, it might speed up this unholy process."

Gamora nods dispassionately. I've noticed she doesn't question my actions when it comes to diplomacy or bartering. It's not that she doesn't give a damn; it's just that she's secure enough in her abilities to defer in areas that are not her expertise. However, if the scenario involves physical acuity, that's another story. For example, prior to our current state of affairs, Gamora and I were processed through a security checkpoint. And I'm not trying to say that _Talon's_ security measures are not standard fare for a large trading hub, but the guards working our check-post were serious A-holes. Humorless and slightly sadistic, these particular thuggees proved to be exceptionally mean-spirited. Throughout the process, Gamora and I were excessively poked and prodded, and to top it off, the pricks gave Gamora an extra pat down. I personally wanted to start WWIII, but Gamora shot me a look that indicated she was okay, and that we should keep pushing forward. If diplomacy is my thing, physical confrontation belongs to Gamora, so let's just say that I've learned to respect her methodology.

"Gamora, can you pull up the _Milano's_ original documents? They're on Rocket's device."

Gamora's fingers swiftly interact with her tablet's smooth surface, "Yes. I've located several items."

"Perfect. Ready?" I begin to enumerate, " _Milano_ title and registration, checklist of all barter items to be sold, contents guide agreement signed, weapons registration, Intergalactic Insurance policy, and proof of ownership for items over 20,000 units."

"You've listed six separate documents, and I can confirm that they are all here," Gamora asserts, before unconsciously tugging at the edges of her hood, a minor stop-measure she employs to conceal her famously hated mug.

"Is everything okay?" I inquire. As I've noted that Gamora can read my mind, I too, have started to pick up on her signals. And let me say, her signals can be extremely subtle. Specifically, she is the kind of individual who is completely in control of her person, i.e., she doesn't fidget or space out. So when I see her concentration slip, even if it's something as minor as making a tiny adjustments to her outfit, I know something is up.

"Peter," she mutters in a low voice, her eyes methodically scan our surroundings, "I think I've compromised this errand."

"Okay," I whisper, my eyebrows lift to form a silent question.

"The security guard with the _Dhelvekian_ knives," Gamora pauses when the description doesn't engage my immediate recall, "he was the larger of five that directed the other security detail to pull me aside for the additional pat down."

I nod, "I know the one."

"I think he recognized me." Gamora's expression darkens, "It was as though he knew of my ancestry, that I'm Zen-Whoberian. I would not be surprised if he ran a background-check after we cleared checkpoint.

"Why didn't he hold you?" I mumble aloud. "No. Gamora? What do you want to do?" As I ask for her advice, my mind wanders back to an earlier conversation with Rocket in regard to how the Guardian's first priority was to get some better disguises for our most identifiable members.

Gamora hands over Rocket's remote, "I sent the original documents. You should resubmit to the original portal. Perhaps they will grant you access to the fast track lane."

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"I'm going to follow from a distance," her eyes dart quickly to a host of refreshment stands, duty-free shopping, and souvenir stands, "time to get lost in the crowds. My comm line is on."

I'm distracted momentarily as she presses her hand briefly between my shoulder blade and ribcage. And within a half-second she's gone.

"So we are splitting up," I mouth quietly to no one, still entranced by her physical touch. I mentally add this interaction to the growing database of 'Things I'm cataloguing about Gamora.' This incredible database will string together all the quirky things that make up the intriguing death agent that she is.

I startle as a static version of her voice engages my comm line, "Star Lord. Successfully misdirected security detail. At _Hoag's Space Treasure's_ , coordinates four-one-nine-J-six-two."

"Roger that, Star Lady," I reply, unable to hide the smile that's taking over my face, "transmission in, waiting on approval."

I cut the feed to laugh out loud, wondering what Gamora thinks of her new title. Without warning, a different electronic voice enters my feed, "Client two-nine-nine-K-twelve, your application was received and approved. You may now proceed to fast track lane three."

"Gamora, I'm in," I relay after switching back to her channel, "Fast track lane three."

"Received," she responds immediately, "will monitor your progress."

The new lane is moving quickly. There are only four companies to be processed ahead of me, and I thrill as our cargo quickly passes through the e-inventory assessor. That's it. I'm in. I open up my tablet, and pull up the algorithm Rocket created to sort through vendors. A manageable list fills the screen, "sort by location," I command, watching the list transform before my eyes. I switch back again to Gamora's feed, "transmitting locations, moving towards top hit, _Galaxy Goods_."

"Affirmed receipt, will adjust accordingly," Gamora's voice is tight and low, "security build-up is high in sector-J-one-four. You should avoid this area, if possible. Go over two more rows."

"Thank you. I'll see what I can do to bypass."

Working with Gamora feels natural. We just click. And don't get me wrong, I like working as an independent agent. But I have to say that this Guardian thing suits me. In the case of Gamora, she elevates my professionalism. How so? Well, with a warrior of her ilk, she makes it so I can relax and focus on the task at hand. I know she has my back.

* * *

At the first kiosk, everything is proceeding smoothly. The vendor doesn't seem that uptight, in fact, he's pretty good about meeting most of my demands at a reasonable price. Win some; lose some, but overall, I'm making out a little better than even. _Galaxy Goods_ is high volume with the latest inventory technology, i.e., items are immediately exchanged, and the cleared goods are directly transported to both parties' stores.

"I've received confirmation of the first transaction," Gamora reports from her undisclosed location, "likewise, Rocket has authenticated that the _Milano_ is simultaneously being re-fueled and loaded with the traded cargo."

"Be sure he runs an optics scan over the contents. I'm going to move on to sector-L-nine-two, a hub called, _Rough Row_."

"Rocket confirms scan and contents," Gamora frowns, "and, no. I'm not going to say that, Rocket."

"Wait. What?" I query, only slightly irritated that I'm not privvy to their communication.

"He is disappointed you were only able to get five T-coned hub switches."

"No way," I curse under my breath, "the prices on those are astronomical. Even in bulk! That foul little rodent better use his modified brain to find a way to manufacture T-cones."

"Peter. Stay on task," Gamora interjects, "I'm reading an exponential increase in security and weapons – all of which seems to be moving in the general direction of _Galaxy Goods_."

"All good. I'm proceeding to the next kiosk, transmitting the next set of coordinates" I stuff Rocket's remote into my side pocket after activating the auto-tracking-forward mode on the cargo hold. The cargo is much lighter now, not that I'm personally carrying the weight, but given this last transaction, it should be able to maneuver faster. And that, is a good thing, because Gamora wants me to start hoofing it to the next kiosk.

Twelve earth minutes later and I'm in line at _Talon TransU Trade._ This kiosk is located in a sector known as _Rough Row_. And per it's namesake, the crowd is definitely more edgy, "Smells like criminal," I murmur, wondering if Gamora finds any wit in my brief description, "the lines are not as long. But, from watching the transaction in front of me, I'm going to need my A-game if I don't want to get screwed over."

My thoughts are interrupted by a scratchy low voice, "Next in line step forward."

"Good afternoon, my good man. Your inventory shows that you carry spectrum-range lenses, micro-boards, and T-coned hub switches."

"I do," he confirms, "do you have specs?"

"I'm transmitting them now."

His eyes squint slightly, and then flicker for a brief second, "you don't have enough of what I'm looking for to trade for the T-cones. But we can work out something for the other two items. I'm transmitting _Triple T's_ offer."

"Triple T," I mouth, "That's a good one." I pause as I look over his e-offer, "Good thing is, I don't need the T-cones. But for the other two items, you're taking nearly all of my stores. Micro-boards are a dime a dozen, I can get them anywhere."

"Not this quality. We only sell Z-grade or above. And I guarantee that you won't find a better price on _Talon_. So that you know, I don't need your business either."

A burst of incoming static jolts my thoughts, "Quill. She's not responding."

I startle at Rocket's voice.

"Just a moment." I stall, trying to process Rocket's transmission.

"Are you in, or out, boy?" The vendor hisses, "I've set a time limit on this offer."

"I'm out." I reply resolutely, digging for the remote, while immediately pulling out of _Triple T's_ line.

"Try her again Rocket. Now!"

I re-engage my helmet, before activating the ATF mode on the remote. "What now?" I demand angrily, expecting an immediate update. Using my helmet's internal tracking system, I see the _Milano_ , and three small orange spots of life that account for the Guardians aboard. Gamora? She's no where to be found.

"Dammit! Rocket? You and Drax? Be ready to deploy on my word."

"Quill! I can't locate her. No indicator. This is bad."

"Oh, I know it's bad." I run a second scan immediately after the first one fails to produce the results I'm looking for. "Geez Louise, it's been over 30 earth minutes since Gamora and I communicated."

My brain is running laps, sprinting for a solution, "Rocket! Send for the cargo. And like I said, be ready. Those dammned a-holes recognized her," I blurt out, exasperation and disappointment dripping from my words, "I'm going up, I know it's against the rules of this joyless exchange hub…."

"Who? Who recognized her?" Rocket implores.

But my leg thrusters have engaged, and I'm lifting into the air. I'm more than aware that our cargo is vulnerable to hijack on route back to the _Milano_ , but that's no longer my primary concern. I weave through the air carefully to avoid open spaces, periodically camouflaging myself near vertical projections. Universe! I hope this new vantage will provide me something, anything – even a minute visual clue that will help me locate her.

Overwhelming fear and frustration steadily build in my gut. For what has been cleverly tucked away in my deep subconscious is now becoming reality. _She's the one._ Indeed, this three-word mantra sets my nerves aflame. I know Gamora can hold her own. I'm just not sure if I can.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Patience


	8. Chapter Eight: Patience

_Come and get your love  
Come and get your love  
Come and get your love now_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Come and get your love_

* * *

Chapter Eight: Patience

 _Talon Trading Hub – Unknown underground location_

I'll admit it. I got too cocky. And that's why I'm currently holed up in isolation somewhere on this Celestial-forsaken station. Three words: worst. case. scenario. For one, I wasn't able to relay any marching orders to Drax or Rocket before my capture. And two, the most irritating news of all? No update on Gamora.

At least I didn't make it easy for my captors. Who are they, you ask? I'm assuming security detail for _Talon_. Yes, I admit I broke hub rules when I powered up my thrusters and flew over the 1000 micro-segments legal limit. But up until now, I couldn't give two orbs. Currently, I'm at a bit of a loss as to how I'm going to manage to get out of this holding cell. As if that wasn't enough, shortly after capture, the goons removed my weapons, took my helmet, thrusters, and all digital accessories. To top it off, they deactivated my Guardian location device and scrambled my translator.

All I could do was put up a good fight. That's what Yondu would do. And out of the dozen security guards, I'm proud to boast that I personally put five of their guys out of commission, not to mention, I did some serious damage to their equipment. Yeah, I'd say that based on the difficulty of my capture, the _Talon_ security team was highly put out by my actions. How frustrated? Besides dragging me halfway down the platform, they all took turns venting their dissatisfaction with me before one of them achieved the ultimate goal: knocking my lights out. Yeah, I know, a textbook tactic if you want to ensure your captive won't be able to see where he's being taken. I personally would prefer if they used my method, i.e., a blindfold. All in all, it's nothing worse than I've experienced before. Yondu's _Ravagers_ were a tough family to grow up in, and over years of thievery with Yondu's crew, I've more than learned how to take a beating without going all soft.

Sitting in the corner of a single-unit cell, my hands still bound, I'm limited in my ability to defend myself or use tools to get myself out of this predicament. What is most demoralizing, is that I'm useless to Gamora and my Guardian crew. Sigh. The pain from the beating is the only thing that helps distract me from worrying about Gamora. That, and the notion that since the _Talon_ guards are keeping me alive, (assuming this is the same crew responsible for Gamora's disappearance and deactivating her Guardian location device), I'm hopeful that Gamora is still breathing too. I'm also buoyed by the knowledge that Gamora's modifications make her much more resilient to assault than I. For example, I know that she heals quickly. It confounds me how her modifications work, but let's just say that I've seen her sister Nebula repair at inhuman rates. Damn. Right about now, I wish I were so lucky. But what scrambles my noggin is trying to figure out how the hell the TSG's ( _Talon_ security guards) were able to subdue Gamora. Based on my capture, I guess it comes down to numbers, firepower, and a lack of familiarity with their territory.

I shift uncomfortably against the cold metal floor. To pass the time, I work my tongue slowly around the inside of my mouth, salving a few open cuts, and checking to make sure all of my teeth are still intact. Although most of the wounds are superficial; i.e., external bleeding has stopped and is now flaking off my skin, I'm thirsty, starving, and starting to feel a little nauseous with the repulsive flavor of iron in my mouth. If only I could remove my jacket and ball it up into a makeshift pillow. Ah, the dreamy fantasy of sleep. With a softer, warmer floor, I think I'd be able to pass out for a bit. But no such luck here. A painful breath in, followed by a painful exhalation. This experience reminds me of a few days back, upon leaving _Kyrnstok_ , I had the opportunity to observe Gamora meditate during the long stretch of flight to _Asteria-III_. I remember asking her about her process, and was surprised that she was more than pleased to share her restorative technique, and the general experience of meditation.

Gamora relayed that mediation kept her sane during some of the darkest days of her life. Indeed, for Gamora, meditation was now one of her best weapons: a lifelong practice that helped keep her mind and body sharp, alleviated pain, helped her find a kind of focus, patience, peace and calm, i.e., all the things I could use right now to pull my mind away from this current debacle. _C'mon Quill. Focus. Be patient. Calm down. Ah, a warm memory will do:_

"I prefer to sit when I meditate," Gamora smiles encouragingly, "and it is helpful, but not necessary, to have back support." She nods to the bulkhead that she's resting against. I'm mystified by a beam of starlight that streams through the _Milano's_ starboard portal, the soft amber glow highlights the red tips of color of Gamora's hair, and bounces off small particles of space dust to give off a halo-like glow around her head.

 _She's the one._

"Like this?" I query, mirroring her posture the best I can with my bulky six-foot-three frame.

"Good," Gamora makes a slight adjustment, pushing my lower back in and forcing me out of my normally slumped posture, "Now relax and close your eyes."

I comply even though I'd rather not take my eyes off of her.

"Listen to your breath," Gamora's tone is calm and even, a smile playing on her lips.

"All I can hear is the engine," I utter, somewhat bemused at how she's able to find peace in this noisy, cramped space, "and a very unpleasant, uh, jeez that's bothersome, like metal upon metal," I curse aloud, "most likely the product of an annoying medium sized rodent."

"Shhhhh, Peter." Gamora intervenes, "Breath in. Out. In. Out. Relax your shoulders, start from the top."

I startle as her she places her hands on the top of my head. "From here," she explains, her fingertips are soft and warm against my temple, and although she applies little pressure, I feel power behind each connection point, "start relaxing here." Slowly she moves her hands lower, and they come to rest on my lower temple. I feel overwhelmingly secure in this unique place in-between.

"Patience, Peter. Are you listening to your breath?" She inquires, "It should sound like a two syllable word. Some would call it a mantra: a word without meaning repeated over and over again."

I lean forward, pressing into her, only to find that her power equals mine.

Her hands move lower, following the contours of my cheekbones, the hollows of my cheeks, before resting at my jawline. Focusing on my breath, has helped remove every worrisome thought. I lose myself with each subsequent breath and fold gently into a layer of calm.

* * *

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha hah! You're drooling." Rocket giggles, clasping his hands on his knees for dramatic flair.

My eyes fly wide open, only to see Drax's quizzical expression inches away.

"Yes. Yes, he is." Drax confirms. I recoil from peaceful meditation into reality, seconds before Drax's large hand lumber towards my face.

"No, Drax!" As my words rush out, my hands instinctively pull up, an automated defensive mechanism.

"How long was I out?" I demand, "Drax, old boy! I appreciate the gesture, but I can clean my face. _Universe!_ "

Rocket and Drax startle when Gamora re-enters the space, "What is going on?!"

Quickly surveying the situation with hands on hips, Gamora explodes, "Jolting Peter out of a meditative state is cruel. Rocket!"

Rocket visibly squirms. I bite down on my inner cheek to suppress a burst of laughter that threatens to explode out of my chest.

"But he's been out for nearly an hour," Rocket grimaces sheepishly.

"Longer than most need," Gamora arches an eyebrow, "but in the practice of meditation, there is no set time. If Peter needs it, he needs it," she scolds, "that was very selfish behavior, Rocket." After admonishing Rocket, she rounds on Drax, " _You_ ," she pushes her finger into Drax's personal space, "should know better. You were a father. There is a saying in my Zen Whoberian culture, 'one must never wake a resting child.'"

"I know that one," I grin, "Terran's have that one too, 'never wake a sleeping baby.' But don't expect Rocket to understand, he was raised by wolves."

"I wasn't raised by wolves!" Rocket protests. "Wait. What are wolves?"

A horrible grating noise cuts through the reverie of my memory. A noise that is not so different from Rocket's sharp laughter - the one that broke me out of my first attempt at meditation. That was a memory and what stands before me is an unfortunate reality: three humorless, hired for muscle goons holding barbaric weapons, standing at ready in front of my cell. Damn it all to hell, I'd take Rocket's annoying guffaw in a heartbeat.

"You have a minute to piss and shit in the corner hole. 'Coz when I open the door, that's when we roll out to see the boss man."

"Nothing left to piss or shit, a-holes," I shrug my shoulders, "Given your warm hospitality, I'm dehydrated, and haven't had anything to eat for hours."

"You talk a lot of shit for someone who claims they don't have any left in 'um." Guard #1 snorts, "But when we're done with you, you'll wish you took up our offer, filthy Terran."

"What did you do with my cohort?" I demand, "She was with me when we went through…."

I duck as guard #2 charges me, swinging a large baton-like weapon at my head. I twist and maneuver as much as an exhausted, nutrient deprived, handcuffed fool can. Within seconds, the third guard takes hold of my handcuffs and roughly twists my arms upwards; I fall accordingly, knees striking the floor hard. The pain has me seeing stars.

"Stupid bitch! You don't ask questions," the tallest of the three smirks, his boot connects with my right ear which sends me reeling to the ground, "but we've plenty of questions for you."

* * *

I think I'm projecting calm, but inside the fear is starting to build. I know I mentioned the _Ravagers_ were a rough crew, and they were, but right now I'm hella vulnerable – strapped to a chair-like metal projection with a whole lot of my most sensitive body parts susceptible to violent aggression, or, _Celestials_ know what this crew has in mind. Damn. There are very few parts of my body that don't already ache. The worst is the burning sensation that encircles my wrists – both tragically worn raw from the metal handcuffs. I try to calm myself down by reminding myself that I won't last long, I'm so dammed hypo-glycemic I'm literally twitching from head to toe.

A small man enters the room. He doesn't appear to be a security guard – well, he doesn't have the build. But there is something unsettling about him, something my gut is telling me, like he makes up for his small size in a not so good way.

As the small man approaches me, I see that he is holding a two-pronged elecro-ray rod. I try like hell not to show fear, but it's hard not to give away subtle signs like increased breath rate and sweating.

The little guy doesn't stop until he's right in my face – and he's so goddamned close I can see his eye-color, feel his breath on my skin, watch a sadistic smile spread from ear to ear, "It's okay," he coos, "lowest level." He waves the device in my face as if he might earn my trust by showing me that the device is in fact set at the lowest level, level 1.

I fight the urge to head butt him. I know I could if I tried, but I've matured over the years, enough to not let testosterone blind me, i.e., the instant gratification won't match the retribution.

"So let's start at the beginning."

"How far back do you want to go?"

"How about name, age, and birth place?"

"That's easy," I offer, trying to act all relaxed and shit, "Peter Parker, thirty-seven, Chicago, Illinois, Earth, Milky Way."

"A real Terran." The man seems oddly pleased, "I've never tested this equipment on a Terran before. Do you know why you are here?"

"No idea, man," I steady my breath, "although I did fly over the legal limit."

"Your documents were forged, Terran." The man smirks, "The last registered owner of _The Milano_ is a former _Ravager_ by the name of Peter Quill."

"Well, I bought it fair and square from that lout," I explain.

"Another Peter? Coincidental, don't you think?"

"Peter is a common Terran name."

With the speed of a Terran earth snake, the two prongs of the electro-ray rod connect with my left inner thigh. Even though my body is strapped in a seated position, it stiffens like a board, which amps up the pressure at each binding. _Universe!_ I don't know how long the dammed rod connects with my body, but it hurts like hell, and the hurt seems to go on for dammed-ever.

"I really despise lying," the small man frowns.

Seconds ago, I had no motor control, completely rigid. Now that my tormenter has removed the rods, I'm slumped over, trembling as my muscles relax from the initial assault.

"That setting was only level 1 at twenty seconds," my short interrogator seems perplexed, "One would think a _Ravager_ Terran should be able to handle more than that. And I am more than aware that the inner leg is sensitive, but it's not the most sensitive area on a humanoid."

"I believe you," I whisper shakily. "Is it my turn? What did you do to my companion?"

"Do you really, truly believe that you are in any position to ask _me_ questions?"

"No." I concede, trying like hell to regulate my breath and steady my quivering body, "Look man! She's not involved in my ring - she had no idea I forged the registration. I'm the one responsible for forcing her to run errands…. _UUUUnnnniverse!"_

"Enough! Enough! Enough!" I plead, seconds after another jolt of electricity lights up my body, "Just let her go, okay? You can have everything else I put in the cargo. I won't come back to _Talon_. A full-on promise, okay man?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you, you a pathetic Terran, forced the last of the Zen-Whoberian species, aka, Thanos' vicious hound Gamora to do your bidding?"

"Look," I implore, "It's a long story. If you want to keep me, do so. But she has nothing to do with this."

"Boys?" My evil interrogator turns to his attention to the hired thuggery, " I am getting the distinct impression that this Terran has a thing for the green warrior whore."

"Don't call her that," I burst out angrily, "she's not a whore."

"Well," the man grinned devilishly, "maybe not yours, but my boys certainly had a good time with her."

A sickening feeling emanates from my gut. They are lying, right? They'll say anything. But what if it's true?

"Oh yeah," The first guard grins, "We took all kinds of care of your green sex machine. Every time we hit on that fine body," the guard mockingly thrusts his hips back and forth, "oh yeah, and she loved every minute of it. Funny thing is, I don't recall she cried out once for a Peter, Parker or Quill – or a Star Lord?"

"You disgusting maggots! You better be fucking lying, because you have five seconds to take that back. And then if you don't, I'm going to kill each and every one of you."

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The small man's blood-specked grey eyes flicker with joy as he clicks the dial up to 3, "Hurts right here, doesn't it?"

The fucker jams the prongs into my solar plexus. The pain is indescribable - analogous only to that ridiculous moment in time when I was holding the fucking Infinity Stone in my hand. I'm screaming bloody murder right now, but I don't really give a damn about what that makes me.

"And here!" He jabs directly in my groin. At the release, I nearly black out.

"Tell me about the orb!" He demands, "Where is it, Quill? Where did you hide the orb?"

"Fuck you." I manage, "You assholes hurt my friend, so you can all go to hell."

Fury dances in the little man's eyes. His hand draws back dramatically before he plunges the prongs into my neck. I'm screaming so loud, I'm unable to hear the crescendo of screams that are slowly filling this cramped interrogation space. A virtual chorus, really. Finally, the pressure lifts, and the amps of electricity cease entering my body. But the screaming continues, thank the _Celestials_ it's not me.

Out of my peripheral vision, I observe carnage in process: a flurry of green, grey, brown and red.

Gamora is slicing off body parts, literally. A blood curdling warrior's yawp fills the air each time she swings two-handed blows in every direction. Rocket has scooped up the electro-ray rod and is jabbing left and right, bodies flail and thrash, and the smell of burning flesh stings at my nostrils.

"Hold still," a low voice cautions in the one ear that isn't stinging. I recognize the voice as Drax. With efficiency and determination, Drax removes each and every binding. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know," I reply, unsteadily standing-up before gingerly attempting to take a first step.

"Too slow," Drax concludes.

"Sorry," he apologizes, lifting me like a gunnysack before throwing me over his shoulder.

"It's okay," I croak lamely, "let's just get the hell out of here."

* * *

Chapter 9: TBD

A little more gore than I intended. Probably more errors too, given my turnaround. But it's important to note that I was asked to prevent the death of a reader who doesn't do well with extended cliffhangers. I am sorry if this chapter offends, or is poorly composed... Anything I can do to save a life.


	9. Chapter Nine: Deadweight

_If you need a helping hand  
I'll be there on the double  
Just as fast as I can_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Ain't No Mountain High Enough_

* * *

Chapter Nine: Deadweight

 _Aboard the Milano – Lower deck_

I am exhausted beyond words. Bone-tired. But thanks to my post-adrenaline hangover, as much as I want to pass out, sleep will not come. Some of my delightful symptoms include: sweating, anxiety, and uncontrollable shaking. Indeed, three leadership attributes Yondu would _never_ exhibit. With a spear through his chest, and on his last dying breath, I am certain Yondu would find a way to mask each and every annoying involuntary biological response. Me? Handicapped by injury, I feel utterly obsolete. I'm lying amidst storage containers and medical supplies, disgracefully isolated from the upper deck crew. This is not where the captain of the _Milano_ belongs. I should be fighting alongside my fellow Guardians.

To boot, the task before the crew is no dammed cakewalk. To escape unscathed from the docking platform and clear _Talon's_ air space before the TSG security forces can take counter measures, will require ingenuity, skill, fearlessness and a bit of luck. Their 'plan' unscripted, as is the Guardian's way, I strain my ears to hear their excited voices punctuate the air – each distinctive Guardian's voice interjects their opinion with near equanimity.

Less than fifteen earth minutes prior, (and per Gamora's explicit directive), Drax is charged with the following: 1) situate me in a safe and comfortable space and 2) use a jet injector to administer necessary medication. Suspended (like a sack of potatoes) over Drax's square shoulders, as the Guardians hurriedly board the _Milano_ , I hear random words, such as: 'inject,' 'intramuscular, and 'right quadracept.' Once on board, Drax promptly formulates that the medical supply compartment will best meet Gamora's two non-negotiable parameters.

As I sit trembling against the support of a bulkhead, I watch Drax thoughtfully rearranged the storage compartment to make room for my bulky, beat-up frame. He gathers a stack of cargo padding and emergency blankets, randomly arranging them in the largest open space. I get it. Time _is_ of the essence.

"Companion," Drax guides me into the makeshift 'Quill recuperation zone,' "you must rest now."

"Thank you, Drax."

"Look over there," he points to the opposite corner of the room.

As I turn my head, Drax expertly jabs my right thigh, directly through my Guardian gear, with a jet injector that serves as a: sedative, anti-inflammatory, pain inhibitor, all-in-one antibiotic.

Drax chuckles, "Distraction worked for my Kamaria too."

I wince, more than smile, "You know what they say about a warrior's bedside manner..."

Drax shakes his head, "No, companion. What do they say?"

"Just seeing if my wit is still in tact, big guy," I manage, as I try to find a more comfortable sitting position, "you were right, though. The distraction worked. _And_ somehow you managed to find some pain-free real estate."

"The green whore gave me specific instructions. She is not aware that I am bad with identifying 'left' and 'right.' But it's easy to see where your clothing is singed." Drax briefly nods towards my left leg. "I am sorry Peter Quill. The weapon the tormentors used on you was banned on my planet. The electrical burns cause much more damage than one can see on the surface. Deformation is probable, but worse still, the dead tissue underneath the surface infects. Amputations are often necessary."

"Okay, okay," I hold up my hand to quiet Drax, "that's the warrior bedside manner I was hoping to avoid."

"Well, they were strategic," Drax considers, his eyes continuing to assess the damage, "with the exception of your sex organs and leg, there is very little one can do in terms of amputation when the weapon is directed at your core."

"I think I hear Rocket calling for you," I feign like I'm receiving auditory information, "yeah, that's Rocket. Thanks, man. Better be no your way."

Drax pats me on the head before moving towards the control deck. But it's too late. His morbid insight has already stoked my anxiety. _Celestials, Drax! Really?_ Why ever would a man want to hear that his junk will be a) deformed at best, and b) probably have to be amputated?!

In frustration, I drag myself towards the doorway, regardless of medical risks. Since I'm going to be losing chunks of my body, I should live in the moment, right?

Under the medical compartment lintel, the acoustics of the hallway aren't half bad. I can just make out Gamora directing Rocket.

"Don't ask for clearance," Gamora commands, "and Rocket? I don't want to hear another word about the lost cargo. Let's move it!"

"Drax?" Gamora's tone interrogates.

"I gave him the jet injector. He's resting on a...," Drax pauses, "well, it's almost like a gurney. No. It's not really a gurney, just a pile of blankets in the area where Quill stores medical and emergency supplies."

"It will have to do," Gamora concedes, "I'll feel better once we get past their defenses. Drax? I need you to man the turret. Your directive? Blow everything in your path to bits. Rocket? Get us out of here. As soon as we can make the jump to hyperspace, go for it! I don't care how, or where. Groot? What are you doing here? Oh dear, you're too small. Drax? Before you head to the turret, will you please buckle Groot in? I've got to check in on Quill."

As soon as I hear the rhythmic crescendo of Gamora's boots striking each successive metal rung, I throw myself back onto the pile of blankets and pseudo close my eyes (squinting for a sliver of sight). This is not entirely a dick move. Is it wrong that I want to gauge her reaction – measure her level of care upon seeing me?

As she enters the unit, Gamora claps her hand to her mouth, wearing a pained expression like I've never seen.

Dammit. Clearly this isn't the time to fuck with her. I open my eyes.

"Peter!" she startles. The concern in her tone is touching. She sits down on the floor next to me, gingerly placing the back of her hand on my forehead, "Do you feel well enough to consume nutrients?"

I'm dumbfounded by her sincere concern, her unusually soft disposition, and her attentive bedside manner.

I nod emphatically, and try to clear my throat to speak. Difficulty speaking is the latest in a line of new symptoms - one that is becoming increasingly worrisome. Did that dammed torture device deform my vocal chords?

"Good," she returns my anemic smile a little to quickly, turning around to rifle through a container of emergency supplies, "I think some of these liquid emergency pouches will help balance your electrolytes."

I would like to believe her. But I feel like shit, and my stomach is churning something awful. A powerful headache is at the center of the storm, a pressure that makes me both dizzy and nauseous. Then all of a sudden, I'm hit with the memory of the TSG's bragging about ravaging Gamora. A new wave of nausea hits like a brick wall. For good measure, I grip onto the side of a proximal medical crate to curb the growing taste of bile building from my gut. I need to know.

"Gamora?" I wheeze, sitting up quickly to avoid getting sick in front of her.

"Quill?" She twirls around quickly, "You must lay down. You're white as a sheet."

Trying my best to control a host of internal spasms, I'm able to communicate in short sentences. "Sick," I mutter, "I might get sick." I bow my head and slowly bring my knees to my chest.

"Breathe," she reminds gently. Placing her hand on my lower back, she sympathetically rubs my lower back in a circular pattern, "It's okay. You can get sick."

I return her worried gaze, "I need to know something."

She tears open a liquid pouch, "Yes, of course. But I want you to eat this first."

 _Oh Universe!_ I sigh inwardly, desperately not wanting to disappoint her. "I don't know. It might come back up."

"At least, drink," she demands, offering a cylindrical metal container, "Please, Peter. You'll feel better. A good portion of your nausea is from lack of water and nutrients. That, and your bodies natural response to the trauma"

I take a few sips of water, and commit to sucking the liquid nutrients out of the pack.

Gamora intensely studies my progress. She chews on her bottom lip, waiting patiently before asking, "Can you keep it down?"

I nod, "Thank you."

Relief floods her face. Convinced that I'm one step closer to the living, she clears a few more crates, and proceeds to straighten and extend the blankets Drax previously laid out on the floor. Her eyebrows furrow in concentration, "Hmmm. Perhaps your quarters would be more comfortable?"

"Uh huh," I agree, "Gamora?"

She extends her hand to help me stand. It's not why I've said her name, but I'm happy for the assist.

"Slowly," she reminds me, "You need to keep down the nutrients."

"Gamora? What happened to you, uh," I swallow painfully; my throat feels constricted, "after our communication line broke down?"

Without warning, _the Milano_ dives violently to the right. Gamora lunges forward to steady me. Simultaneously, the ship shudders as Drax fires a round of powerful blasts from the main turret. Unpredictably, the ship jags in the opposite direction. Gamora and I slide and shift as Rocket steers _the Milano_ past a host of unknown barriers.

I look up towards the command deck. _I need to be there._ My body language gives me away.

"Peter? No way!" Gamora makes to direct me back to the medical storage compartment. We hold on to the bulkhead for support.

"Back to the unit, Quill," she punctuates her words with gentle physicality, guiding me as fast as is safe.

Today is the one day I don't have the energy to fight her. Gamora nods towards the blanketed area she helped fashion into a bed. She stipulates in the most frightening tone I've heard her use, "Quill? You _will_ rest and stay here for the duration of this shift."

Relenting, I fall back exhausted.

Gamora lingers briefly at the door frame. "I'll be back," she promises. And within the next second, she's back in warrior mode, racing towards the ladder, hollering commands, "Rocket? Drax?"

As her footsteps fade, my eyelids grow heavy. The jet injector is starting to kick in as the _Milano_ swerves both violently and irratically towards open space. Resigned to Gamora's command, _she's doing a hell of a job_ , I'm lulled to sleep by inverted loops and barrel rolls. I have faith in my team….y _ou said it yourself, bitch. We're the Guardians of the Galaxy._

* * *

It's all quiet and calm when I finally come to. As my senses slowly switch back on, I'm aware that 1) we're on a smooth flight path, 2) the light and steady hum of the _Milano's_ engines indicates we are cruising at a healthy and normal impulse speed, and 3) the shift to reserve lighting also suggests that _Milano_ is out of immediate danger. I yawn, and slowly shift my body to relieve a few glaring pressure points. Pain flares in every wound, causing me to immediately still.

"I am Groot?"

The voice is small, tinged with sleep. I look down to see Groot curled up in a depression of the blanket, near my feet.

"Groot?" I grit my teeth as the pain subsides, "Good to see you, little guy"

A smile spreads across Groot's face. I slowly lean forward, my hands in place to scoop him up to safety in order to avoid rolling over him. In response, Groot immediately scrunches up his face, before covering the area where most humanoids have noses. "I am Groot!"

Confused, I pull my hands in closer for inspection. Indeed, there is a somewhat pungent odor – a smell that takes me back to an early Earth memory. Something about an Eastern medicine-compounding store, and a time when Grandpa and I drive all the way to Kansas City to pick up a new prescription for mom. Grandpa explains that the new medicine is an alternative method that mom can use in addition to chemotherapy.

"What is this?" I am immediately taken aback to see a thick yellowish-green paste slathered around my wrists, i.e., in the areas that were worn raw by the TSG handcuffs.

"I am Groot." Groot continues to plug his nose area, dramatically stomping his feet in protest.

"This is medicine, right? Yeah. I agree. It sure packs a punch considering the amount applied to my wrists."

Groot shakes his head in disagreement. He proceeds to point to his own neck, then his mid-chest, ribcage, then his uh, between his legs? What the hell? Then I catch on. Groot is pointing to all the same areas I sustained injuries. I gently probe my neck and feel the dried paste flake away at my touch. "Who did this?" I query, pulling up my shirt to inspect my chest and side wound. Yup, both injuries are also caked in medicinal paste.

"I am Groot." Groot says matter-of-factly.

"You did this?" I ask incredulously. I am mortified of what I'll find if I pull down my pants.

Groot points to the opposite end of the cramped compartment space, "I am Groot."

 _For Universe's sake!_ I nearly jump out of my skin upon realization that Gamora is slumped in the opposite corner, snoozing upright in what appears to be 'the most uncomfortable sleeping position' I've seen. Her head rests against an unopened crate.

"That can't be comfortable," I mumble.

As I can only derive so much information from 'I am Groot," my eyes scan the room for more clues. I spy several packets of opened nutrients, one empty canister of water, two empty jet injectors, and a small container filled with the what appears to be the medicinal paste that covers my wounds.

"But I don't remember…." I shake my head. "Did I eat all of these packets? Did she really, you know, apply the medicine?"

Groot's grin threatens to split his tiny twig head in half, "I am Groot!" Groot flips back the corner of the emergency blanket to reveal that he's sequestered my Walkman. Centering his head between the two ear pads, Groot kicks the pause button with his foot so it clicks back flush with the other buttons. The tape deck immediately whirs to life with a soft beat that is just audible through the headset.

"Groot?" I shake my head in disbelief, "I'm pretty sure Gamora brought the Walkman for me."

Groot shrugs unapologetically, closes his eyes and begins thrusting his head rhythmically from side to side.

Fortunately for the little turnip, I've decided it's more important to check the wounds below my waistline. I mean, I guess I'd rather Gamora apply the paste than Rocket or Drax, but _Celestials!_ Dammit. I'm afraid to inspect, but the compulsion to know the truth tips the scales. I unbutton just enough of the metal clasps to pull my waistband out far enough to see.

 _Universe!_

* * *

Tune in for Chapter Ten: The mystery of the medicinal paste!


	10. Chapter Ten: Heritage

_If feels so right being with you, here, tonight  
Please go all the way  
Just hold me close  
Don't ever let me go_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Go All The Way_

* * *

Chapter Ten: Heritage

 _The Milano – Lower deck_

 _One. Two. Three._ I drive a jet injector into my right thigh. _Universe_ it's painful! Determined not to disturb my green cabin mate's slumber, I hold back a colorful stream of bad words. The injection stings a helluva lot more then it should. But that's my own damn fault. Without the element of surprise, or Drax to distract me, I tense at the moment of impact. _Ten Earth minutes._ That's how much time must pass for the drug to take full effect. Finally, I'll be able to do something I've wanted to do since I became aware of Gamora's temporary sleeping arrangement, her body compactly wedged between the wreckage of medical supplies.

To pass the time, I crack open another canister of water, pouring the cool liquid down my throat. With each passing second I feel: 1) exponentially better than I did post-rescue, and 2) hungry as hell. As quiet as I can manage, I rifle through a crate full of assorted nutrient packs. Near the bottom, I dig out several protein bars, and down them with an animalistic ferocity.

I refuse to believe that I'm not going to come out of this debacle a whole, healthy humanoid. And for some reason, the best way I can soothe my current psychological state, is by fully saturating myself with the elements that make up the foundation of Maslow's Hierarchy. Food? Check. Water? Check. Rest? Check. Warmth? Hmmm. That's my next priority.

Popping the last bit of protein bar down the hatch, I feel somewhat satiated. Swigging one more mouthful of water, I check my timepiece. The digital display confirms. Ten minutes down. I steadily rise and stretch. And I have to admit, I feel pretty damn good. No more shakes, nausea, or headache. The icing on the cake? Well, whatever the hell that malodorous medicinal paste was composed of, there is a distinct visual and physical improvement to my sustained injuries. Like magic, the skin around my wrists is no longer red and raw; the five electrical burns feel like mere bruises.

 _It's time, Quill._

I walk over to the sleeping beauty, wondering if I can pull off my next plan without disrupting her sleep. I crouch beside her, and the universe gifts the rare opportunity to watch her at rest. Damn. Gamora is the definition of serenity. I soak in the details of her face; the intricate patterns that delineate her high cheekbones; the long dark lashes that outline her eyelids. _Here goes nothing._ I inadvertently chew my lower lip, trying to figure out how to pull this off without having my lights knocked out. My left hand reaches behind her lower back, while my right hand positions under the crook of her legs. I hover inches away, hesitant to make full contact. _I can do this. Yes, I can do this. One. Two. Three. I pitch forward and make my move._

 _Perfect! She's still out like a light._

With ninja precision I carry Gamora sideways past the medical compartment doorframe, mindful not to bump her pendant elbows and dangling feet. I move stealthily through the main hub, taking the first sharp left into my personal quarters. Angling my leg, I edge open the door, thrilling that I've made it this far. Another sly sideways maneuver, and I ease her onto the bed. Deliberately depositing her across the length of center, I attentively draw and gather the blankets before tucking a pillow under the curve of her neck. I startle when she stirs. Fortunately, she resettles, shifts to her left, sighs once, and resumes sleeping.

The self-control I exhibit, by not jumping in bed with her, is dammed extraordinary. I take one last look to fully appreciate my handiwork. Yup, I am exceedingly pleased with myself.

"At least she won't wake up with a kink in her neck," I mumble, softly closing the door.

"Peter?"

 _Huh?_

"Peter? Peter, is that you?"

 _Shit. Is that Gamora?_

I quietly re-enter, disheartened that my super stealth mission fails.

Gamora is sitting upright, eyes wide. I turn on the night lamp and sit beside her at the foot of the bed.

She shakes her head in dismay, "What are you doing, Peter?"

"I don't know," I offer halfwittedly, "I mean, let's just say you looked super uncomfortable on the medical unit floor. And, uh, now that I'm feeling better, I wanted to gift you the luxury a captain deserves," I lift both of my hands in unison, emphasizing the benefits of the largest quarters on the ship, "You've just bested the _TSG_. You've more than earned it."

"Peter, you've gone mad." She leans over and immediately checks my head for fever.

"I'm fine. Really. Look," I hold out both wrists for inspection, "almost all healed. Thanks to you, and that magical, stinky medicinal paste."

Gamora does a double take; she motions me closer and tenderly guides my wrists closer to the light. She's as baffled as she is contented.

"Come closer," she asks, and then, "look up."

I turn my gaze towards the ceiling, and startle when her fingers move near my jawline, gently lifting my chin another few degrees.

"Peter," Gamora swallows heavily, "this is unbelievable." Her fingers lightly trace the area where the electro-ray gun left its angry mark.

A look of joy transforms her typically sullen expression,"Peter! You're healing at an unbelievable rate," Gamora pauses as her thoughts catch up with her emotions, "This must be your Celestial heritage. The Xandarians were right! You have powers, unbelievable healing powers, I, I saw," she falters, "I saw what they did to you. I saw the last two strikes; heard the two prior. Drax and Rocket couldn't stop me. I saw red. It was like the old days. I was going to kill _all_ of them."

"Thank you for rescuing me - rescuing all of us," I lean in, pulling her tightly into my chest for the kind of hug I've been saving for her for way too long, "And I'm sorry this brought you back to a dark place."

I feel her shoulders relax, listen to her breath regulate before asking the one question that's most important for my wellbeing, "Gamora?" I mutter near her ear, "Did they hurt you?"

"How do you mean?" Gamora eyes widen in surprise.

"I thought you had been captured. So when they were interrogating me, they used that fear against me. They talked about how they hurt you. And I kinda freaked out."

"They never captured, or injured me!"

Her posture and tone relay severe agitation, "So they used this lie to mess with your head?!"

"That they did." I sigh in relief, "thank the universe their words were bullshit."

"I do not regret anything I did to them," she admits fiercely, "perhaps I should have drawn out their deaths."

"Now, now," I laugh, "no need to go back to the old warrior ways."

Gamora's brows furrow, "Question, Peter. Although you were in shock at the time, could you not see that I was at full health, without injury?"

"Well, yes," I try my best to explain, "but my captors were pretty explicit. And like me, you heal quickly too."

"Modifications," Gamora shakes her head, "not heritage."

"No matter the source, a huge necessity for a warrior like yourself," I counter, "but just so you know that I'm not entirely bonkers, uh, the kind of hurt those a-holes claimed might not present on the outside."

Gamora is quiet while processing my words, "I think I understand."

We sit in silence for some time. No words exchanged until I remember my other pressing question.

"I'm just," I begin to laugh uncomfortably, more from the nature of the question versus breaking the silence, "I'm uh, well, I'm just sorry you had to put the medicine on my wounds...some places more than others."

Gamora laughs, "I didn't cover all of your wounds. Peter? You forgot?"

I raise my eyebrows, "Please don't tell me the Raccoon touched me. That's where I draw the line."

And with that, Gamora breaks into peals of laughter. She falls over, literally, wiping at her eyes.

Although I'm thrilled to see her laugh uninhibited, mesmerized that I'm being gifted all this intimate one-to-one time with her, I need to know, "But seriously, Gamora, who?"

She leans in close to my ear, "You did."

"What?" I'm aghast.

"You don't remember? That's my fault," she explains, "After we made it past the TSG's defenses, I came back to check in on you. You were resting, but it was obvious that you were still in a lot of discomfort. I opted to use a more potent cocktail of jet-injectors – which probably accounts for your memory loss. After the pain relief kicked in, I was able to get you to eat more nutrients, and then, I showed you how to apply the paste. I used your wrists as a demo. And then you, Peter Quill, a man of honor, were determined to do the rest." Once again, Gamora takes hold of my right hand, reinspecting the skin on my wrist that has rapidly started knitting back together. She stops suddenly, and draws my hand even closer.

"How do you know it's my heritage, and not the medicine?" I query, studying her actions with a hint of amusement.

She continues to inspect my hand, all but five inches from her face, "It is very potent, but not that potent," she offers, still distracted by whatever she's currently engrossed in. I startle when her finger traces what appears to be an invisible line down the back of my hand.

"Gamora?"

"I did this."

She turns my hand in her palm, angling it in the low light so I can see the remnant of a 1-inch scar.

"When you knocked the orb out of my hand with your crazy hand-eye skill."

"Yes." She releases me and looks away.

I smile when I think back on that day. In my memory I can see Gamora, cleverly waiting to pounce on me, her back leaning against the Broker's storefront. Damn. From the first second I laid eyes on her, she took the words right out of me.

* * *

 _"_ _What happened?"_

 _"_ _Uh…this guy just backed out on a deal with me. If there's one thing I hate, it's a man without integrity. Peter Quill. People call me Star Lord."_

 _"_ _You have the bearing of a man with honor."_

* * *

"Well, you made your mark that day," I run my finger over Gamora's handiwork, "one of many, I hope?"

A warm smile spreads evenly across her face. Sheesh, if I had my druthers, I'd lean in and kiss her. Do all sorts of things to her, but I know it's not the right time. And when or if that right time comes to pass, I want her to be as ready as I am.

"Peter!" I startle at her tone. But her expression is pure delight, "I nearly forgot. Stay right here."

I watch as she leaps off my bed and tears out of the room, a burst of raw energy possessing her. Me? I don't want to move. I'd rather savor the memory.

Within a few minutes, she's back. There's a spring in her step, and her arms are quite obviously hiding something behind her back.

"This better not be another orb. Or that smelly paste," I start.

She's biting her lower lip, "Look!" Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she dramatically whips my helmet into view. My eyebrows hit the ceiling. That's when she presents my set of Quad Blasters from the back pockets of her cargo pants.

I'm bowled over, "Duuuude! Now _that's_ what I'm talking about." I take the mask and position it over my face before depressing a button that reduces it back to its dormant form. "Now hand over those Blasters, Star Lady, before you make another mark."

With a twinkle in her eye, Gamora methodically accounts for the rest of the gear the TSG stole from me upon capture.

"You know what?" I set the items carefully aside, filled with gratitude over her thoughtful recovery, "you make one hell of a leader."

"Thank you, Peter Quill."

"No, I'm not just saying it. Even though I was holding on by a thread, I was following your moves from the base of the medical compartment. And the way you maneuvered the Guardians past the TSG's line of defense, well let's just say, it was dammed impressive."

I'm trying my best to relay something important, something she needs to hear, or maybe, something I need to hear, "the thing is, Gamora, no matter the pressure, you never sway. You're on target. You're fearless, and fearsome – but at the same time, you're also ethical. You have morals, and most important, you listen to and trust your gut. You've really got it all. You're the one."

"Peter," Gamora starts to protest, but I won't have it.

"No, Gamora. Since the battle of Xandar: from dealing with the orb to becoming a full-fledged Guardian," I pause because I want to say this right the first time, "I've put in a lot of hours thinking about what it takes to lead. The thing is, all I've had for a mentor is Yondu. And I could never figure out how to balance the things I felt were equally important: compassion, ethics, morals, trust, vulnerability, and love, with the leadership principles Yondu valued.

"He wasn't your only mentor, Peter." Gamora searches my eyes, "Your mom was just as influential."

I flinch upon hearing mom's name. But maybe that's okay. Because it sure as hell feels safe to be vulnerable around Gamora.

"You have what it takes, Star Lord." Gamora reassures softly, the low light casts shadows over her beautiful doe-like eyes. She extends her right hand, reaching for mine.

"Peter, take my hand."

No longer paralyzed, I reach forward and we connect. Gamora grips with strong fingers; her thumb outlines the scar, i.e., the first physical mark she inflicted on my body on that very fateful day.

Gamora looks me directly in the eyes, offering up her own vulnerability, "Dare you forget what I was on the day we met?"

I'm three parts chocked up and six parts stupefied; my eyes transfixed on the sacred place where her hand locks on to mine.

"Don't ever doubt your influence, Peter. Or your ability to lead our family."

And that's it, really. Because more so than Yondu's, Gamora's affirmation has always been the one I needed most. _She's the one._

"Thank you, Gamora."

She squeezes my hand back appreciatively.

"So," I clear my throat, "where to from here?"

"I'll follow your lead, Star Lord."

* * *

The End

* * *

Thank you for reading Star Lord Vol. 1

And to my review and support crew, MScorp and A. Marvelite. _Celestials!_ You stuck through it to the end! Many thanks! Don't fret….

 _The Guardians of the Galaxy will return_

Soon to be in the works: Star Lord Vol. 2


End file.
